


Blind Allies

by Heisey



Series: 1950s AU [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Duncan Maclain Mysteries
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Blind Characters, Blind Detectives, Blindness, Case Fic, F/M, Murder Mystery, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Secret Identity, missing person, original character deaths, whodunit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heisey/pseuds/Heisey
Summary: A return to the 1950s AU of “The Devil and Nero Wolfe.” However, Wolfe and Archie don’t appear in this story. Instead, Matt, Foggy, and Karen cross paths with a less well-known fictional detective of the period, Duncan Maclain, who has something in common with Matt: he’s blind. When Nelson & Murdock’s client goes missing, they join forces with Maclain and his partner in the detective business, Spud Savage, to search for her. An old-fashioned whodunit, complete with a missing heiress and an elusive killer who always seems to be one step ahead of them.
Relationships: Duncan Maclain & Samuel "Spud" Savage, Duncan Maclain/Sybella Ford Maclain, Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson & Karen Page, Matt Murdock/Karen Page, Samuel "Spud" Savage/Rena Savage
Series: 1950s AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147805
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the tag for “Period-typical Sexism.” There’s a lot of it in this story. No sexual harassment or sexual assault, just a lot of outdated attitudes toward women. I have also tagged this work for “Period-typical Racism.” There is no overtly racist conduct or language, but the only two African-American characters (from the Maclain novels) are Maclain’s chauffeur and cook, reflecting the racial stereotypes of the period.
> 
> The title, "Blind Allies," is the title of one of the Maclain novels, but the story is completely different.
> 
> For anyone who might be interested, the Maclain novels have been reissued recently as e-books.

_Thursday_

_Karen Page_

The woman who walked into the offices of Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law, a little before ten o’clock on that breezy October morning was not what their legal secretary and office manager Karen Page expected. After hanging up her fur-trimmed coat, the woman approached Karen’s desk. Karen stood to greet her. She was about Karen’s age, late twenties, and petite, with elfin features set off by green eyes and dark auburn hair. Her dress, in a fine navy blue wool, was simple and elegant, probably the creation of some exclusive designer whose clothes Karen could never afford. (Most of Karen’s wardrobe came from the bargain bins at Macy’s and Gimbels). Her watch was set with diamonds, and a large diamond solitaire, apparently an engagement ring, adorned her left hand. The rest of her told a different story. Her hair was cropped short and topped with a navy blue beret. She wore no makeup except a touch of lipstick. Her shoes were low-heeled and “sensible.” Instead of a handbag, she carried a bulging briefcase that looked well-used. Apparently this was what a “working heiress” looked like.

“Charlotte Stansfield,” the woman said, smiling and extending her hand. “You must be Miss Page.”

“Karen Page,” Karen replied, shaking her hand. “We spoke on the phone. Please have a seat,” she added, gesturing toward one of the two chairs in the small reception area. “I’ll let Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock know you’re here.”

Miss Stansfield took a seat and immediately opened her briefcase. After extracting a sheaf of papers, a fountain pen, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, she placed the glasses on her nose and began perusing the documents, apparently making notes in the margins. She looked up only when Matt and Foggy entered the reception room. Like most people meeting Matt for the first time, she did a double-take when she realized he was blind, but she quickly recovered.

“Franklin Nelson,” Foggy said, extending his hand as he approached her. “But everyone calls me Foggy.”

The client shook his hand. “Charlotte Stansfield,” she said, but please call me ‘Charlie’.”

Matt held out his hand. “Matt Murdock.” She shook his hand, then picked up her briefcase and followed the two lawyers into their small conference room.

After Karen served coffee, she took a seat at the table and flipped open her steno book, ready to take notes as needed.

“You and Elektra were friends in college?” Foggy asked.

“More like acquaintances,” Charlie said. “We were in the same class at Barnard, but she ran with a different crowd.”

“And she referred you to us?”

Charlie nodded. “Yes. I was at the theater one night last week, with my fiancé.” Her eyes flicked down, toward her left hand. “She and I got to talking, just catching up, you know, at the intermission. She mentioned that she was in New York looking after some of her late father’s business interests. I asked her if she knew of a good lawyer, and she gave me your names.”

“How can we help you?” Matt asked.

Before she answered, Charlie picked up her briefcase, took out a thick file folder, and placed it on the table in front of her. “My father, James Stansfield, was the founder of Stansfield Radio Technology, Inc. When he died two years ago, I inherited his interest in the company. I was an only child, so I always knew the company would be mine someday. In college, I studied science, mostly physics, and spent my summers at RPI taking engineering courses that weren’t offered at Barnard.”

“RPI?” Foggy asked.

“Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, upstate, in Troy.”

“Oh. Please, continue.” Foggy waved his hand.

“After I graduated, I went to business school at the University of Chicago.”

“It sounds as if you prepared well,” Matt commented.

“I think so,” Charlie replied. “When my father died, I became the majority shareholder in the company, with 73% of the shares. The remaining shares are held by four long-time employees to whom my father gave shares in the company in recognition of their service. They’re also the officers of the corporation and have been running its day-to-day operations.” 

“What is the company’s business?” Matt asked.

“We design and make vacuum tubes and related components for radios and, now, for television sets.”

“Seems like that would be a pretty good business to be in, these days.”

“It is,” Charlie agreed, “for now. But things are changing rapidly in our industry, and we aren’t keeping up. Within the next ten to fifteen years, many of the products we make will become obsolete. A device that was invented a few years ago, called the transistor, is going to change everything.”

“I’m guessing that has something to do with why you’re here,” Foggy said.

Charlie nodded. “And your guess would be correct. I want the company to be an innovator again, like it was when my father was alive. To do that, we need a Research and Development Department, but when I proposed it, the men running the company brushed me off. ‘You don’t need to worry your pretty little head,’ that kind of thing.” She frowned and shook her head. “With that kind of thinking, we’ll be out of business in ten years.”

In her seat at the end of the table, Karen seethed silently, gripping her pen as she took notes. Then she decided to speak up. “How can we help?”

Three faces, two of them with surprised expressions, turned in her direction. Karen rarely spoke up in meetings with clients.

“I need to take full control of the company,” Charlie told her. “The four men who’ve been running it need to go. I can’t afford to buy them out, so they’ll still be shareholders, but they’re also employees of the corporation and can be removed from their positions. I want you to make sure it’s done in a way that will stand up in court, if necessary.”

“You mentioned your fiancé earlier,” Foggy said. “What does he think?”

“Chris?” she scoffed. “He thinks I’m ‘going through a phase’ and will ‘settle down’ once we’re married.”

Karen ventured another question. “And will you?”

 _“No! Never!”_ Charlie replied, with a vehemence that surprised even Karen. “My father spent his life building the company. I grew up learning the business from him. I’m not going to let my father’s dream be destroyed by a bunch of, of _dinosaurs_ who can’t see past the next quarter’s earnings report.”

“I think we can help you,” Matt said, “if you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“I’m sure,” Charlie said firmly. 

“Do you have people in mind to replace them?”

She nodded. “I do. Two women I went to business school with. They all graduated near the top of our class, like me, but the only jobs they’ve been offered are secretarial. Can you believe it?”

“Yes,” Karen muttered under her breath, hoping Matt couldn’t hear her.

“The third is a woman I met at RPI, a brilliant engineer. She has a Ph.D. and can’t get a job in her field, either. She’s going to be my Vice President and director of Research and Development.”

Charlie picked up the papers in front of her and slid them across the table to Foggy. “Here are the documents you’ll need, including the officers’ employment contracts. And there’s one other thing you should know. I think one of them, maybe all of them, are siphoning funds from the company. Business should be booming. There’s a lot of demand for our products, especially for televisions. But my income from the corporation has gone down steadily, ever since my father died. Something’s not right, I’m sure of it.”

“We’ll need proof,” Matt observed.

“I know. I’m planning to search the office over the weekend. If there’s anything to find, I’ll find it.” Charlie stood and picked up her briefcase. 

“Before you go, there’s one other thing,” Foggy began. Charlie turned to face him. “What you want, it’s not going to happen overnight. It’s likely they’ll fight it. And they’ll have their own lawyers. It’s not a sure thing. If you find proof of wrongdoing, or simply mismanagement, that’ll make our job easier. But there are no guarantees.”

Charlie nodded gravely. “I understand.”

Matt, Foggy, and Karen got to their feet. “Karen will mail you a retainer agreement, but we’ll get started in the meantime,” Foggy said, walking their new client to the door. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” she said. “So will I.” She shook his hand and departed. 

  
_Tuesday_

_Duncan Maclain_

It was just after ten in the morning. Captain Duncan Maclain was in his mahogany-paneled office in his penthouse high above West 72nd Street and Riverside Drive. In front of him on his desk was a jigsaw puzzle that he was putting together by touch. It was one of the techniques he used to train and sharpen his remaining senses, ever since losing his eyesight in a gas attack in the trenches of Northern France in 1917. In the background, WQXR was playing Bach’s “Goldberg Variations.” The intercom on his desk buzzed, and his secretary, Rena Savage, announced, “Mr. Ballard is on his way up.”

“Thank you,” Maclain replied, “please send him in when he arrives.” He pressed the button on his desk that turned off the Capehart, then ran a hand over his hair, black with a few sprinklings of gray at the temples, making sure it was in place.

Presently, the office door opened, and two people entered. One was Spud Savage, Rena’s husband and Maclain’s partner in their detective business. The other presumably was the prospective client, Christian Ballard. Maclain stood to greet them. As he did so, Schnucke, the German Shepherd who was snoozing at – or, more accurately, _on_ – his feet grumbled in her sleep. Maclain held out his hand. “Duncan Maclain.”

The visitor grasped his hand, and they shook. “Chris Ballard.”

“Please, have a seat, Mr. Ballard,” Maclain said.

“Oh,” Ballard said, sounding surprised. Apparently he had discovered the chair he was about to sit in was affixed to the floor, an adaptation Maclain had made that allowed him to move freely about his office.

Maclain resumed his seat behind his desk, then asked, “What can we do for you, Mr. Ballard? Mrs. Savage said you told her it was about a missing person.”

“Yes, it’s my fiancée, Charlie – ”

Spud interrupted him, from his usual seat on the red leather couch. “Her name’s ‘Charlie’?”

“Short for ‘Charlotte.’ Everyone calls her ‘Charlie’,” Ballard explained.

When’s the big day?” Spud asked.

“Um, we haven’t set a date yet.”

Maclain waved his hand. “Please, continue.”

“She’s been missing since at least Saturday, maybe Friday. Please, Captain Maclain, Mr. Savage, you have to find her. If anything happened to her . . . .” Ballard’s voice trailed off.

“Breathe, Mr. Ballard, breathe.”

Ballard took a gasping breath. “OK,” he said, “and it’s Chris.”

“All right. When did you last see or speak to her?” Maclain asked.

“We had dinner Thursday night, then she called me on Friday to cancel our date for Saturday. She said she had ‘business’ to take care of.”

“And when did you learn she was missing?”

“Yesterday morning. Her housekeeper called me when she arrived for work. The poor woman was hysterical. When I finally got her calmed down, Mrs. O’Brien, that’s the housekeeper, said Charlie wasn’t there, and the house had been ransacked.”

“Sounds like a matter for the cops,” Spud commented.

“I called them, right after Mrs. O’Brien called me,” Ballard replied, “and I met them at the house, but I don’t think they’re taking it seriously. I overheard one of them saying, ‘We’re wasting our time. You know what broads are like. She’s probably shacked up with a new boyfriend.’”

“Is that a possibility?” Maclain asked.

 _“No!”_ Ballard exclaimed. “Absolutely not. Charlie and I have known each other all our lives. We practically grew up together. After her mother died, my mother took her under her wing, so to speak. If there was someone else, I’d know.” He paused for a beat, then added, “No, there isn’t anyone else. I’m sure of it.”

Maclain decided it was time to change the subject. He was pretty sure he knew what Ballard would say in answer to the next question, but he asked it anyway. “Does your fiancée have any enemies, anyone who would want to harm her?”

“No,” Ballard said emphatically. Maclain guessed he was shaking his head to add emphasis.

“Aside from the house being ransacked,” he asked, “was there any sign of foul play?”

“You mean like signs of a struggle?” Ballard was silent for a moment, apparently considering the possibility. “I don’t think so, but whoever it was, they went through the house pretty thoroughly. It was a mess, especially the library. It used to be her father’s study and office. The odd thing was, Mrs. O’Brien said that nothing seemed to be missing.”

“Maybe they didn’t find what they were looking for,” Maclain observed.

“Right,” Spud agreed. “Or maybe Charlie has it.”

“What could she possibly have that someone would want that badly?” Ballard asked.

“A moment ago, you said she mentioned something about taking care of business when she canceled your date. What sort of business?” Maclain asked.

“It’s that damned factory,” Ballard said. Maclain raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Charlie’s full name is Charlotte Stansfield. Her father, James Stansfield, owned Stansfield Radio Technology, Inc. Charlie inherited his majority interest in the company when he died several years ago.”

“Could that have something to do with her disappearance?”

“I don’t know. She has this half-baked idea of running the company herself, even went to business school to prepare for it. And she wants to replace the men who are running the company with a bunch of girls she went to college or business school with. Can you imagine it, a bunch of girls running a company like that?”

Maclain could imagine it. His wife Sybella owned her own company, a successful antiques and decorating business, and ran it herself. He didn’t answer Ballard’s question, but instead observed, “I take it you don’t approve.”

“What? No, of course not. It would be a disaster for the company. Women have no head for business. Everyone knows that. It’s not . . . womanly. I’m sure it’s just a phase. She’ll settle down, once we’re married.” 

Maclain wondered if that would be the case but kept his thoughts to himself. “Did the men in the company know of her plans?”

“I don’t think so,” Ballard said. “She told me she was going to consult some lawyers about how to remove them from the company legally. She said she talked to a classmate from Barnard, who gave her the names of a couple of lawyers.”

“Do you know who these lawyers are?” Spud asked.

“No. I don’t know if she ever contacted them.”

“OK. You need to talk to that friend of hers and get their names. They might know something that could help, if she ever consulted them.”

“I can do that.”

“One more question,” Spud said. “You mentioned Miss Stansfield canceled your plans for Saturday?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So how did you spend the weekend?”

“I went to my family’s place out on Long Island Friday evening. Didn’t return to the city until Monday morning.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?”

“What?” Ballard demanded. “You have your nerve, asking me that.”

“First lesson you learn as a detective,” Spud drawled, “look at the nearest and dearest first.”

“Just answer the question,” Maclain advised Ballard mildly.

The young man took a deep breath, then said, “All right. And, yes, my parents, my sister, and two house guests can vouch for me, as you put it. They were there, all weekend, along with the staff.”

“Good,” Maclain said, standing to signal the meeting was coming to an end. “We have contacts in the police department. We’ll find out what we can from them. What about her friends? Is there anyone she would’ve gone to if she was in trouble?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” Ballard said. “I’d like to think she’d come to me. If not me, I’m not sure who it would be.”

“Well, make a list of her friends, anyone you think might help us find her, and give it to Spud or Rena. And we’ll definitely need to talk to the girls she was going to bring into the business, as well as the men she was going to replace.”

“You got it,” Ballard said as he turned to leave. When he reached the door, he stopped. “Just find her. Please.” His voice shook as he made his plea.

“We will,” Maclain assured the young man.

As soon as he heard the door close behind their visitor, Maclain leaned back in his chair with his hands laced together behind his head.

“So what do you think, Spud?” he asked. “Did our friends on the force get it right?”

“Nope. She doesn’t sound like the kind of girl who’d run off like that.” Spud fell silent for a moment, apparently thinking, then added, “But it could be pre-wedding nerves. A lot of ladies have them.”

“Possibly, but Ballard said they haven’t set a date yet.”

“True.”

“And as I recall, it wasn’t Rena or Sybella who had the jitters before our weddings.” Before Sybella Ford came into his life, Maclain had given up on the idea of marriage. No woman would want to tether herself to a blind man. Or so he believed. Sybella had proved him wrong. 

Spud laughed. “You got that right. I still don’t know what they see in us two knuckleheads.” He rose from his seat on the couch. “Time for a little gunplay, I think.”

Maclain followed him out of the penthouse to the building’s basement, where Spud had set up a special kind of firing range. In one corner of the basement, a square space was walled off by nine-foot-high stacks of flour sacks filled with sand. The targets were empty coffee cans, thrown by Spud from outside the square. With years of rigorous training, Maclain had honed his hearing to a sharpness that allowed him to shoot accurately at sounds. But constant practice was needed to maintain that skill at a high level. An hour later, Spud was satisfied, and they returned to the penthouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandra Day O’Connor, the first woman on the U.S. Supreme Court, graduated from Stanford Law School in the top 10% of her class, in 1952. After passing the bar, she was unable to find a job as an attorney. One law firm refused to hire her as an attorney but offered her a position as a legal secretary. In 1959, Ruth Bader Ginsburg graduated from Columbia Law School, first in her class. She was turned down for a clerkship at the U.S. Supreme Court because of her gender. Eventually she secured a less prestigious clerkship, but only after one of her law school professors pressured the judge to hire her.
> 
> Maclain’s training to shoot at sounds is from the Maclain canon. It seems a little far-fetched to me, but if we can suspend disbelief for Daredevil, surely we can do the same for another blind crime-fighter!


	2. Chapter 2

_Wednesday_

_Duncan Maclain_

Spud strode into the office as Maclain was finishing his second cup of morning coffee.

“I got the skinny on those two mouthpieces,” he announced, “the names Ballard gave us.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and got comfortable on the couch before he continued. “Franklin Nelson and Matthew Murdock, attorneys at law, office in Hell’s Kitchen. Both of ’em born and raised there. Went to college at Columbia. Nelson enlisted right after they graduated, in ’42. Saw action in Italy.”

“Murdock didn’t serve?” Maclain asked coldly. He didn’t respect – or trust – a man who refused to serve his country.

“No,” Spud replied, then explained, before Maclain could respond, “Murdock’s blind.”

Maclain raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“An accident, when he was nine. Pushed an old guy out of the path of a truck, but it overturned and spilled chemicals on him. They got into his eyes and blinded him.”

Maclain took a moment to absorb this information. It wasn’t all that different from what had happened to him, he supposed. Then he asked, “What did he do during the war?”

“Worked for Stark Industries, the arms manufacturer, for a while. But he spent most of the war at Valley Forge Army Hospital, working with blinded soldiers.”

Maclain nodded. So Murdock wasn’t a shirker, after all. Good. “Go on,” he said.

“After the war, they went back to Columbia for law school, then hung out their shingle after they graduated and passed the bar. The firm’s small-time but has a good reputation, according to my contacts.”

Maclain nodded and picked up the phone.

  
_Matt Murdock_

The intercom on Matt’s desk buzzed. When he pressed the button, Karen’s voice came through the speaker. “There’s a Duncan Maclain on line one. He says he’s a private detective. He’s calling regarding Miss Stansfield.”

“OK, thanks.” Matt pressed the second button from the left on his phone and lifted the receiver. “Matthew Murdock.”

“Mr. Murdock,” a rich baritone voice replied. “As I’m sure your girl told you, my name is Maclain, Duncan Maclain. I’m a private detective. I’ve been retained by Christian Ballard, the fiancé of Charlotte Stansfield.”

Matt interrupted him. “Retained for what purpose?” 

“She’s missing.”

“Missing? Since when?”

“Since sometime this past weekend,” Maclain replied. 

“Have the police been notified?”

“Yes, of course. Mr. Ballard called them immediately. But he doesn’t think they’re taking her disappearance seriously, and I tend to agree.”

“How so?”

“He overheard one of them saying something to the effect that she probably had run off with a new boyfriend, but that seems unlikely. She sounds like a very serious young lady, not at all flighty.”

Matt had to agree, but he kept his thoughts to himself. 

When Matt didn’t respond, Maclain continued, “I understand she may have been referred to your firm by Miss Elektra Natchios, regarding some legal matters involving the business she inherited from her late father.”

Matt thought for a moment before answering. He didn’t know if Maclain was who he claimed to be, but his knowing about the referral from Elektra was in his favor. It didn’t make any difference. Their conversation with Miss Stansfield was privileged. He couldn’t disclose what they had discussed. Finally, he said, “She came to see us last week. I really can’t say any more than that. Attorney-client privilege, you know.”

“Of course,” Maclain replied smoothly. “I understand. But perhaps there is a way we can work together. I’m sure we are all anxious for Miss Stansfield to be found. I suggest we meet, say, later this afternoon?”

Matt needed to stall. He wasn’t going to agree to a meeting, not until he checked out Maclain and was sure of his _bona fides_. “I’ll need to confer with my partner first. He’s in court this morning. I’ll let you know as soon as we have a chance to talk.”

“Of course. Your girl has my number. I’ll await your call.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Matt said, and ended the call. As soon as he hung up the phone, he called out, “Karen!” She got up from her desk and crossed the reception room to stand in his doorway. “I need everything you can find out about this Duncan Maclain, ASAP.”

“You got it, boss.”

  
An hour later, Karen knocked on Matt’s office door.

“Come in,” he told her. She sat across the desk from him in one of the client chairs. “What do you have?”

She flipped open her notebook. “I spoke to Ben Urich, at the _Bugle_. He’s my best source when I need the lowdown on someone. If there’s anything we should know, he knows it.”

“So what does he know about Maclain?” 

“Ben was surprised we hadn’t heard of him.”

“Surprised? ” Matt asked.

“Yes.” Karen turned a page in her notebook. “According to Ben, Maclain’s pretty well-known. He’s been active as a detective since before the war. Works with a partner in the business, Samuel Savage, known as ‘Spud.’ He has a reputation for getting results when the cops or other investigators have failed. Ben says he’s cracked some big cases along the way. He even exposed a Nazi spy ring during the war. Or so they say. It was all very hush-hush.” She closed her notebook. “It sounds like he’s on the up-and-up.”

Matt nodded, but before he could say anything, Karen went on. “There’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Maclain’s blind.”

“Blind?”

Karen nodded. “Yes. He was blinded in action in France in 1917. A gas attack.”

Matt thought for a moment. So this Maclain fellow was blind. So what? Maclain’s blindness didn’t need to define him, any more than Matt’s own blindness defined him. If Karen’s informant was correct, Maclain could get the job done. That was the only thing that mattered. “What difference does that make?” he asked coldly.

“None. I, uh, just thought you’d, uh, want to know,” she explained. “It . . . it might be, um, awkward, you know, if you met him and you didn’t know.” Matt had to admit she could be right about that. “And you did tell me to find out everything about Maclain,” she added pointedly.

“I did. Is that all?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“All right. When’s Foggy due back from court?” he asked.

“Any time now.”

“Good. We’ll talk then.” Matt leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. Karen turned and went back to her desk.

  
_Karen Page_

A little before three o’clock that afternoon, Foggy, Karen, and Matt descended the stairs from their office above a hardware store and emerged onto West 47th Street. A shiny black Cadillac was parked in front of the building. Maclain had sent his car for them. Standing next to the car was a large Black man, dressed in a black business suit and a chauffeur’s cap. When he saw the three figures approaching him, he touched the bill of his cap and said, “Mr. Nelson, Mr. Murdock, and – ?”

“Karen Page, our gal Friday,” Foggy told him. 

Karen winced. She hated to be called that.

“Miss Page,” the man replied, lifting his cap. Then he introduced himself. “Cappo Marsh, Captain Maclain’s driver.”

Foggy, Matt, and Karen climbed into the car, Karen and Matt in the back seat, Foggy in front. There was plenty of room for all three of them in the back seat, but Foggy chose to sit in front. He spent the time quizzing Cappo about the vehicle’s features and performance. In the back seat, Matt and Karen listened to the conversation, not bothering to hide their amusement. Neither of them expected ever to own or drive a car like it. For different reasons.

It was a short drive from Hell’s Kitchen to West 72nd Street. Cappo turned the car to the curb in front of a large apartment building and brought the vehicle to a smooth stop. He got out of the car quickly and walked around to the passenger side, where he opened the door for Foggy, then for Karen and Matt. When they were all standing on the sidewalk, Cappo told them, “I have to take the car to the garage, but Captain Maclain is expecting you. Just go on in and take the elevator to the 24th floor. When you get off the elevator there, go across the hall and ring for the private elevator to the penthouse. Rena – Mrs. Savage, that is, Captain Maclain’s secretary – will send the elevator down for you.”

Foggy held out his hand, saying, “Thanks, Cappo.” The chauffeur shook Foggy’s hand, then returned to the Cadillac and drove away.

Karen looked around at the elegant appointments of the lobby as they entered. “Pretty swanky,” she whispered to Matt, describing the details his heightened senses couldn’t pick up: large gilt mirrors, lighting provided by brass sconces and crystal chandeliers, Oriental rugs covering the terrazzo tile floor, all presided over by a uniformed doorman. She always felt out of place, somehow, in a setting like this. They didn’t have apartment buildings like this in Hell’s Kitchen or the small town in Vermont where she grew up. She drew herself up to her full height as Foggy announced, “Franklin Nelson and Matthew Murdock, to see Captain Maclain.”

The doorman nodded and gestured in the direction of the gleaming brass elevator doors. “Yes, sir,” he said, “Captain Maclain is expecting you.”

Karen guided Matt to the elevator, and they rode up in silence. When they stepped out of the private elevator on the 26th floor, the out-of-place feeling returned. They were in a small reception area, paneled in mahogany. It opened into an office, where a woman was sitting behind a desk. She fit the surroundings: attractive and well-dressed, wearing a forest green sheath that fitted her perfectly. Her jet black hair, showing only a few sprinkles of gray, was swept up into an elegant French twist. Her gray eyes spoke of intelligence and humor. She rose to greet them. “Good afternoon,” she said in a pleasant alto voice. “You must be Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock and – ”

Karen answered before Foggy could speak. “Karen Page, legal secretary and office manager. We spoke on the phone.”

“Her real job is keeping us in line,” Foggy quipped, gesturing at Matt and himself.

The woman gave Karen a knowing look. Karen returned the look, rolling her eyes.

“Of course,” the woman replied, then introduced herself. “Rena Savage, Captain Maclain’s secretary. Please follow me.”

They followed Rena into a large, mahogany-paneled office. The man sitting behind the desk wasn’t what Karen expected. She knew he must be in his late fifties, having served in the First World War, but he looked younger. His neatly combed hair was black, with only a little gray showing at the temples. Like Matt’s, his eyes looked surprisingly “normal,” except for his unfocused gaze. She’d expected to see scars, left by the gas attack that had blinded Maclain, but there were none. Tall and broad-shouldered, he filled out his beautifully-tailored charcoal gray suit. In her “good” navy blue ensemble, the one that she’d been so excited to find on sale at Gimbels, Karen felt a little shabby. Even Foggy’s best suit, a double-breasted pinstripe he’d paid way too much for, couldn’t compare. As for Matt, his suit was just a suit, worn because social conventions demanded it. He didn’t know what he looked like, of course, and sometimes he almost seemed to forget that other people could see him. Turning her attention back to Maclain, Karen speculated that the detective business must pay much better than she thought, or maybe Maclain came from money. She suspected the latter was the case.

Maclain was speaking. “Good afternoon, Mr. Nelson, Mr. Murdock, and – ” He paused, seeming to pick up the presence of an unexpected third person.

Karen spoke up. “Karen Page, Captain Maclain, their legal secretary and office manager.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Maclain replied. He waved a hand. “Have a seat, please.”

Reminding herself that they were among people who didn’t know about Matt’s abilities and his secret identity, Karen guided Matt to a chair and placed his hand at the top of its back. When she did so, the chair didn’t move. She gave a little gasp of surprise.

Maclain apparently heard her, because he chuckled and said, “Miss Page, I see you have discovered how I am able to move about freely in this office. The chairs and the other furnishings are affixed to the floor.” Then he spoke to Matt. “You should try it, Mr. Murdock.”

So Maclain knew Matt was blind. It made sense that he would know. They had checked out Maclain before agreeing to this meeting. Surely Maclain would have checked them out, too. Maclain’s comment was also reassuring: he didn’t know Matt’s secrets. It was unlikely Maclain would have discovered them. The few people who knew were utterly trustworthy. But if Maclain was as good an investigator as Ben said, it was possible. It was a relief to know Matt’s secrets were safe, for now.

The powerfully-built man sitting on the red leather couch got to his feet to introduce himself. “Spud Savage,” he said, “Dunc’s partner in this little enterprise.” He was almost as tall as Maclain, with yellowish hair, now going gray, brushed back from his forehead. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tweed suit jacket draped over one arm of the couch. Foggy stepped across the room to shake his hand, while Matt and Karen nodded in his direction to acknowledge him. Karen found it difficult to meet his piercing gaze, from eyes that were an unusual shade of yellow, like agates. 

Maclain wasted no time getting down to business. “As I believe you know, Christian Ballard, the fiancé of Charlotte Stansfield, retained me yesterday to locate Miss Stansfield, who has been missing since this past weekend. I understand she is a client of your firm, having consulted you last week. It seems to me that we both have information that could be of assistance in finding her, and it would be to our mutual advantage to pool our resources.”

“You’re correct,” Foggy replied, “but the question is how, exactly, do we do that? As you must know, what Miss Stansfield told us is privileged.”

“Yes, I know,” Maclain said smoothly.

Foggy sat back with his arms crossed, apparently thinking. Then he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, with his hands laced together. “There might be a way. If our firm were to hire you on Miss Stansfield’s behalf, we could share information without losing the privilege.”

“I already have a client,” Maclain pointed out. “And there’s no conflict of interest.”

Karen spoke up. “Are you sure about that?”

Four men turned faces with surprised expressions in her direction. Savage was the first to speak. “She’s right, you know, Dunc. Look at the nearest and dearest first.”

“Have you ruled out the possibility that Mr. Ballard is involved in Miss Stansfield’s disappearance?” Foggy asked.

“Yes. He was at his family’s place on Long Island from Friday night to Monday morning. Five witnesses confirm it.”

“Well, if he isn’t involved, he wants his fiancée found,” Matt observed. “Working together gives us the best chance of doing that. Surely he would agree to step aside and allow us to retain you in his place.”

Maclain frowned and rubbed his chin. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “I’ll talk to him.” He pressed a button on his desk, then said, “Rena, would you get Mr. Ballard on the telephone for me, please?” When the intercom buzzed, he addressed Matt and Foggy, “Would you excuse us, please, gentlemen?” Matt, Foggy, and Karen left the office as Maclain picked up the phone. A few minutes later the intercom buzzed. Rena picked up the phone and listened, then told them, “You can go back in now.”

When they were back in their places in the office, Maclain said, “Mr. Ballard wasn’t happy at first, but he agreed. Mr. Nelson, do you want to begin?”

Foggy nodded. “All right.” He gave Maclain a detailed recounting of their meeting with Charlie, with occasional pauses to check a fact against Matt’s memory or Karen’s shorthand notes.

When he was finished, Maclain leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped together behind his head. “Interesting,” he commented. “Mr. Ballard didn’t mention Miss Stansfield’s suspicions about the diversion of company funds or her plans to search the company’s offices over the weekend. I suspect he didn’t know about them.”

“Probably not,” Foggy agreed. “I got the impression he didn’t approve of her involvement in the business.”

“He didn’t,” Maclain confirmed. “But it appears Miss Stansfield carried out her plan to search the offices.”

“How do you know that?” Matt asked.

“Because when her housekeeper arrived on Monday morning, her townhouse had been ransacked. So she must have found something.”

“Or someone thought she had,” Matt observed.

“That means someone – someone other than the three of us – knew of her plans,” Foggy said, gesturing at himself, Matt, and Karen.

“Not necessarily,” Maclain responded. “Someone might have seen her searching the offices, or coming or going.”

“If the wrong person caught her searching the offices . . . ,” Foggy began.

Matt finished the thought for him. “I don’t like her chances.”

“But if she was caught, there would have been no need to search her house,” Karen pointed out.

“Good point,” Matt said. “Maybe she wasn’t caught, but someone saw her. We should proceed on the assumption that she’s alive and in hiding.”

“And we need to find her first,” Foggy added.

“Agreed,” Maclain said.

“This is all very interesting,” Savage said from his place on the couch, “but it doesn’t help us find her.”

“You’re right,” Foggy agreed, “but we have to start somewhere. I say we talk to the girls she was going to bring into the company and the men she was going to replace.”

“Agreed,” Maclain said. “Why don’t you talk to the girls, and Spud and I will tackle the men?”

Foggy glanced at Matt, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Agreed,” Foggy said.

“We need to talk to the housekeeper, too,” Savage added. “She might remember something she didn’t tell Ballard or the cops. And I should give the house a once-over, especially the study.”

“Good idea,” Matt said. “I’d like to be there when you do.”

Savage gave him a questioning look but simply said, “Sure thing. I’ll let you know when.”

On that note, the meeting came to an end. Foggy, Matt, and Karen stood up and started to walk toward the door, but when they were halfway there, Matt stopped and turned to speak to Maclain. “What’s your dog’s name?” he asked.

Maclain did a double-take, apparently surprised by Matt’s question, but he recovered quickly and answered. “Schnucke.”

“A Seeing-Eye dog?”

“Yes. You don’t have one?”

“No. Never felt the need,” Matt replied.

“You should consider it,” Maclain said. “Getting Schnucke . . . she changed my life.”

“I’ll think about it,” Matt replied noncomittally.

“Would you like to meet her?”

“Yes, I would.” 

Karen guided Matt around Maclain’s desk to the area where Schnucke was curled up, apparently napping. The German Shepherd heard them approach and lifted her head.

“Hold out your hand, palm down, and let her sniff you,” Maclain instructed. Matt squatted to bring himself down to the dog’s level and held out his hand. Schnucke sniffed his hand, then gave it a thorough licking.

“And your other dog?” Matt asked.

Maclain’s face betrayed his shock. After a moment, he answered, “On the terrace, in his heated kennel.”

“Not another Seeing-Eye dog.”

“No. Dreist is a police dog, trained to protect me and the members of this household, and anyone else I order him to protect. If he thinks you’re a threat, well, you don’t stand a chance against him.”

“May I meet him, too?” Matt asked.

Maclain seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded. “Follow me.”

Guided by Karen, Matt followed Maclain through the French doors behind his desk and onto the terrace adjoining the office. The German Shepherd in the kennel was larger and more powerful-looking than Schnucke. A low growl rumbled in his throat at the approach of strangers. “Dreist, steady,” Maclain ordered. The dog seemed to relax. Maclain turned to Matt and Karen. “First, we need to show him you’re not a threat. We’re going to stand here and have a friendly conversation for a few minutes. Then you can meet him.”

As the three spoke, Karen glanced at Dreist out of the corner of her eye. The dog was watching them intently, seeming to take in their body language and the tone of their voices. When Maclain was satisfied enough time had passed, he instructed them to squat down next to the kennel, one at a time, and let Dreist sniff them. “Dreist, scent,” he ordered the dog. When Dreist had thoroughly sniffed both of them, he told the dog, “Dreist, safe.” Dreist looked up at them, resting his head on his paws. “Now he knows you,” Maclain told Karen and Matt. “If you ever encounter him, he won’t attack you unless I order him to.”

“Remind me not to give you a reason to give that order,” Matt quipped.

Maclain chuckled. Then he turned to Matt and asked, “How did you know Dreist was here?”

“Heard him,” Matt replied.

“We should be going,” Karen prompted him, hoping to avoid further questions. “You have court in the morning, and I need to start calling Charlie’s friends.”

“Of course,” Maclain said. “Rena has their addresses and phone numbers. She’ll give them to you on your way out.”

“Thanks,” Matt said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  
_Duncan Maclain_

After the office door closed behind the two lawyers and their secretary, Maclain turned to Spud. “Well?” he asked.

“That Miss Page, she’s a real looker, Dunc.”

“That’s not what I was asking, Spud. And do I need to remind you you’re a married man?”

“No. And she only had eyes for Murdock, anyway.”

Spud got to his feet and opened the panel that concealed a bar. He took his time fixing drinks for himself and Maclain and took a long drink of his bourbon before answering Maclain’s question. Finally, he said, “There’s something . . . different about that Murdock fellow. I can’t put my finger on it, but he’s not your average blind man.”

“You’re sure he’s blind?”

“Yes.”

“His hearing is at least as good as mine,” Maclain observed. “He could hear Dreist out on the terrace, through the closed French doors.”

Spud whistled. “Better than yours, I’d say.”

“See if you can find out more about him, will you?”

“You got it, Dunc.”

Spud’s footsteps crossed the room. Then the door closed behind him. Maclain lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair, lost in thought. He and Spud were well into middle age now, but in his mind’s eye, his best friend and partner was still the young lieutenant who had served with him in the hell of the trenches. He wouldn’t be here now without that younger Spud. It was Spud who returned to New York after the war that didn’t end all wars and found his Captain, sinking under the weight of his blindness. It was Spud who yanked him out of the morass of self-pity and depression. It was Spud who convinced him to get his first Seeing-Eye dog – a decision that changed his life, as he’d told Murdock. It was Spud who came up with the idea of partnering in a detective agency. It was Spud who always insisted he could be – no, he _was_ – the equal of any man with working eyes. Sometimes Maclain even believed it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more details on Matt’s and Foggy’s back stories in this AU, see Chapter 1 of “The Devil and Nero Wolfe.” Karen’s back story in this AU will appear in a future chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thursday_

_Karen Page_

On the afternoon of the day following the meeting at Maclain’s office, Matt and Karen arrived at the address Savage had given them, a five-story townhouse on East 65th Street, between Park and Madison. They climbed the stairs to the stoop and rang the bell. The woman who answered looked to be in her late fifties. She wore a plain black cotton dress, covered by an apron, and sturdy lace-up shoes. Her once-chestnut, now mostly gray hair was pulled back in a bun, much neater than those Karen sometimes tried to coax her own locks into. 

“Good afternoon,” she greeted them, stepping back to allow them to enter. “You must be Mr. Murdock and – ?”

“Karen Page.”

“Please, come in,” the woman said. “I’m Miss Stansfield’s housekeeper, Edna O’Brien. Mr. Savage is already, here, in the study.”

Matt and Karen stepped into the marble-tiled foyer. When the housekeeper closed the door behind them, she turned to Matt and said, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Murdock, but are you by any chance related to ‘Battlin’ Jack’ Murdock?”

Matt gave her a half-smile. “His son.”

“Oh, I thought so!” Mrs. O’Brien exclaimed. “I thought I could see a resemblance.” She turned to Karen and added, “He was a fine figure of a man, was Jack Murdock.”

“How did you know him?” Karen asked.

“I didn’t know him, but my Ed – my late husband, Edward, that is – he loved the fight game, especially when he had a few dollars riding on the outcome. You know, with the bookies. He never bet against Battlin’ Jack, my Ed. He said he always got back up.”

Karen stole a quick glance at Matt. She was pretty sure he was thinking the same thing she was: Ed probably lost more money than he won, betting on Battlin’ Jack.

Matt smiled again, a tight smile, but a smile nevertheless. “Yes, he did.”

They followed Mrs. O’Brien down the hall leading to the back of the house. An Oriental runner covered the polished hardwood floor. Doors opened into rooms on both sides. The second door on the left was closed. Mrs. O’Brien opened it. Savage was there, standing next to a large, ornately carved oak desk that occupied the left side of the room. A row of filing cabinets stood behind the desk. Bookshelves lined the wall on both sides of the door and at the far end of the room, on their right. Framed drawings hung above the filing cabinets and between the windows on the fourth wall. When she looked at them more closely, Karen saw what they were: patent drawings, no doubt for devices invented by James Stansfield. The study had been thoroughly ransacked. The drawers of the desk and filing cabinets hung open, and papers littered the floor around them. Books were scattered in front of the shelves. 

Mrs. O’Brien noticed Karen taking in the chaos in the room. “I’m sorry, I should’ve – ” she began, but Karen interrupted her.

“No need to apologize,” Karen assured the housekeeper, “you’ve had a lot to deal with.”

Mrs. O’Brien pressed her lips together and wrung her hands.

Savage looked up when they entered. “Mr. Murdock, Miss Page,” he greeted them with a nod of his head.

“Mr. Savage,” Matt replied.

“It’s ‘Spud,’ please,” Savage said. 

Matt held out his hand. “Matt.” Savage grasped Matt’s hand, and they shook.

Mrs. O’Brien took a step toward the door, but Savage spoke up before she left, “If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. O’Brien, I have a few questions for you.”

She stopped and turned to face him. “Oh, of course, anything I can do to help.”

They sat around a well-used oak work table in front of the bookshelves. Savage began. “When did you last see or speak to Miss Stansfield?”

“Last Friday, when I was leaving at the end of the day. I asked if she needed anything else, and she said she didn’t. I wished her a good weekend and left.”

“You don’t live in?” Savage asked.

“No, I only work Monday through Friday, 8 to 5,” the housekeeper replied, “unless Miss Charlotte needs me at other times. But she’s often away on weekends, at the Ballard estate on Long Island. With her fiancé, you know.”

“Did she mention any plans for the weekend?” Matt asked.

“No.”

“And how did she seem?” Karen asked.

“Just as usual.”

“She wasn’t excited or nervous?”

“Not that I noticed,” Mrs. O’Brien said, shaking her head. “I didn’t know anything was amiss until I arrived Monday morning.”

“Was there anyone she might have gone to, if she thought she was in danger?” Savage asked.

“In danger? Holy Mother of God!” Mrs. O’Brien exclaimed as she made the sign of the cross. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. After a moment, she seemed to regain her composure and answered the question. “I’m sure I don’t know,” she said. “Young Mr. Ballard, I would have thought. If not him . . . . She has a lot of friends, but I don’t really know them, you know.”

Savage reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his notebook. He flipped it open and handed it to Mrs. O’Brien. “Do you know any of these people?”

Mrs. O’Brien took a pair of reading glasses out of her apron pocket and put them on. She studied the list of names, then said, “Yes. The young ladies have all been here. The men are something to do with her father’s company.”

“But would she go to any of them if she was in trouble?” Savage persisted.

She shook her head, looking defeated, and handed the notebook back to Savage. “I don’t know. Honestly.” 

“That’s all right,” Savage told her. “We’re going to search this room now. Is there anywhere Miss Stansfield might hide something, like papers, that she didn’t want found?”

“You mean like a secret hiding place?”

“Something like that,” Savage replied dryly.

Mrs. O’Brien shook her head. “Not that I know of. But . . . .”

“What?” Savage asked.

“Mr. Stansfield, the company, that is, did work for the government, during the war, you know. He never spoke of it to me, of course, but I think it was some kind of secret work. Whenever I came in to clean, his desk and this table were always clear, nothing on them. So there may be a hiding place that I don’t know of. I never snooped.”

“No, of course not,” Savage said quickly. “If there was such a place, would Miss Stansfield have known about it?”

“I don’t think so,” the housekeeper replied, “not at that time. She was still a schoolgirl. But Mr. Stansfield might have told her later, when she was older. It was his dream, you know, for her to take over the company. He might have decided that was something she needed to know.”

Savage considered this for a moment, then said, “Thank you, Mrs. O’Brien, we’ll get started now.”

She rose to her feet and turned toward Matt. “You’re welcome to join me in the kitchen for coffee, Mr. Murdock, while they’re searching.”

“Thank you, but I’ll be searching, too.”

She looked at him in confusion. “But – ”

“If you’re looking for something that is hidden from sight, you don’t need sight to look for it,” Matt explained.

“Oh, I suppose not,” she said, flustered. “I never thought of it like that.”

Karen got to her feet as Mrs. O’Brien started to walk toward the door. “I’ll come with you,” she said. “I’d like to take a look at Miss Stansfield’s room, if that’s all right. A woman’s eye might spot something these two would miss.” She gestured toward Matt and Savage. 

“Certainly,” the housekeeper replied. “Come with me.”

Karen followed Mrs. O’Brien to the third floor of the townhouse, where the housekeeper opened the door to a large bedroom overlooking the walled back yard. Karen had several questions in mind, but the older woman spoke first. “If I may ask,” she said, “what’s it like, working for Mr. Murdock?”

Surprised by the question, Karen didn’t know how to answer. She simply said, “All right, I guess. I mean, he’s a good boss, most of the time.”

“I’m sure he is,” Mrs. O’Brien said, “but I meant, what is it like, working for a blind man?”

“Oh.” Karen thought for a minute. “Not that different, really,” she said.

“But doesn’t he need a lot of help?”

“No more than any of the other bosses I’ve had.” Mrs. O’Brien gave her a disbelieving look. “They all needed help, that’s why they hired me. It’s my job, to help them. Matt, uh, Mr. Murdock, just needs a different kind of help, that’s all.”

“Well, now that you put it like that . . . ,” The housekeeper said slowly, still sounding doubtful.

“It’s true,” Karen assured her. “Mr. Murdock is quite capable. You’d be surprised at what he can do.” Karen smiled to herself. She still remembered how shocked she’d been when she learned about Matt’s abilities. Then she continued, “He even turns his blindness to his advantage at times.”

Mrs. O’Brien gave Karen a puzzled look. “How so?”

“People underestimate him. All the time. By the time they figure out how wrong they are, it’s usually too late. They’re walking out of the courtroom, on the losing side.”

“It must be very interesting, working for him.”

“You have no idea,” Karen thought. Out loud she said, “Yes, it is.” With that, the conversation came to an end. Apparently Mrs. O’Brien’s curiosity about Matt had been satisfied. Karen was grateful for that. There was only so much she could safely say. Now it was time to do what she came here for. She stepped into the bedroom. “You told the police nothing was missing, is that right?” she asked.

“Yes, I did tell them that,” Mrs. O’Brien acknowledged, “but I can’t be certain. I was . . . all in a tizzy.”

“Of course you were,” Karen said soothingly. “Let’s take a look around, shall we?” She followed the housekeeper as they surveyed the room. Apparently Mrs. O’Brien had tidied up in here, unlike the study. From time to time, Karen pointed out empty spaces where something might have been, but Mrs. O’Brien just shook her head. Until they got to the closet. Tearing her attention away from the exquisite clothes hanging in front of her (she loved nice things but had resigned herself to never having them), Karen glanced up at the shelf above them. It held a row of hat boxes, with an empty space at one end. 

When she pointed it out to Mrs. O’Brien, the older women looked at it for a moment, pursing her lips and scratching her head. Then she said, “Her train case. It’s missing.”

“Her train case?” Karen asked.

Mrs. O’Brien nodded. “Yes. She always kept her train case packed with the little necessities, you know, for when she went away for the weekend.”

“Oh,” Karen said. She thought for a moment, then asked, “When was the last time you saw it?”

“A week ago Monday, when she returned from spending the weekend at Mr. Ballard’s family estate on Long Island.”

Karen considered what the missing train case might mean, then said. “Let’s keep looking, all right?”

Mrs. O’Brien nodded. Ten minutes later, they completed their search. Nothing but the train case was missing.

  
_Matt Murdock_

After the two women left the study, Savage turned to Matt and observed, “Your Miss Page, she’s a real knock-out.”

“So they tell me,” Matt said mildly. “But she’s not my Miss Page.”

“She could be, you know,” Savage told him. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Matt replied dryly. He didn’t have to take Savage’s word for it; he knew Karen was attracted to him. His senses told him. Savage didn’t know that, and he wasn’t going to know it, not if Matt had anything to say about it. The more vexing question was what Matt was going to do about it. The attraction was mutual; he couldn’t deny it. But it was too dangerous for them to become romantically involved. Karen was already in danger, knowing as she did about his secret life. A romantic attachment would only increase the danger. It was up to him to protect her at all costs, whether she wanted him to or not. And that meant he couldn’t act on his feelings, no matter how much he wanted to. 

What he really wanted to do now was to change the subject. “How d’you want to do this?” he asked, gesturing toward the room.

“I’ll start with the desk,” Savage said. “You can look for invisible hiding places.”

“You got it,” Matt replied. “In or behind the bookshelves is the best bet.” He turned toward the wall behind him.

“How’d you – ?”

Matt knew what Savage was going to ask and answered before he finished the question. “Karen described the room to me.”

“Oh.”

Matt wasn’t sure if Savage bought the lie, but the other man didn’t pursue it. Using his cane, he made his way to the far end of the bookshelves, stepping carefully around the books and papers scattered on the floor, and began his search, tapping and listening intently, his head inclined toward the rows of books.

Savage took a seat at the desk. A moment later, Matt heard a muttered curse: “Son of a bitch.”

Matt stopped what he was doing and asked, “What’s the problem?”

“The men who took this place apart must’ve been in a hell of a hurry,” Savage explained. “The lock is completely busted.” He pulled open the center drawer and rummaged around inside it. Matt went back to searching the bookshelves.

A half hour later, more piles of papers were strewn across the desktop. Stacks of books, moved aside by Matt, sat on the floor next to the volumes thrown there by the intruders. Savage leaned back in the chair and cracked his neck. “You find anything?” he asked.

Matt stopped what he was doing to answer him. “Nothing yet. But there’s still another bookcase to check.” He went back to work. When he reached the second shelf from the top of the last bookcase, he went very still. He removed the books from the shelf and placed them on the floor. He tapped the back panel of the bookshelf twice, tilting his head as he listened intently. Then he said, “Bingo.”

Savage sat up straight. “What?”

“There’s a void behind this panel.” Matt knocked lightly on the wooden back of the bookcase. “I just have to figure out how to open it.” He ran his hands over the panel. When he pressed on the bottom right corner, he heard a click, and the panel swung open. 

Savage jumped to his feet and hurried across the room to peer into the space. He pulled out a stack of papers.

Matt examined the interior of the hidden compartment, tapping each side. Then he shook his head. “That’s it. There’s nothing else behind this, or on either side.”

Savage returned to the desk and flopped down in the chair to examine the papers found behind the bookcase. Following Savage’s directions, Matt found a chair across from him and took a seat.

“Anything?” Matt asked.

“Nothing that helps,” Savage replied, dropping the papers on the desk in front of him. “It’s a bunch of drawings, maybe something Stansfield was working on for the war effort. They look old, nothing Miss Stansfield would have found in the company’s offices last weekend.”

“You find anything in the desk?” Matt asked.

Savage shook his head. “Nothing in or on the desk or on the floor around it. And before you ask, yes, I checked the drawers for false bottoms. There’s nothing taped to the undersides, either.” 

“What about the filing cabinets?” Matt asked, tilting his head toward the row of cabinets behind the desk.

“I checked them for false backs and false bottoms,” Savage said. “I doubt we’re gonna find anything there, but we’ll have to go through them more thoroughly at some point. Just not today.”

“Agreed.” 

“But I did find one thing that’s interesting – not exactly what we’re looking for, but interesting.”

“What’s that?”

“Miss Stansfield’s will,” Savage replied. Papers rustled. “Or, more accurately, two wills.”

“Two of them?”

“Yeah. One signed a couple of years ago, one not signed.”

“What do they say?”

“Well, you’re the lawyer,” Savage said, “but best I can make out, the signed one leaves her shares in the company to the four men her father gave shares to.”

“Read it to me, that part,” Matt said. Savage complied. “You’re right,” Matt confirmed. “What about the other one?”

“Looks like it was maybe drawn up because of her upcoming marriage,” Savage commented. “In this one, the shares go to Ballard if he outlives her or to their future children if he doesn’t.” 

Without prompting, he read that part of the document to Matt. When he finished, Matt nodded his head. “Right again.”

“So why didn’t the burglars take them?”

“Maybe they didn’t see them,” Matt suggested. 

“Or maybe they were only looking for company documents and weren’t interested in the wills.”

“Oh, they’d be interested, all right.” Matt fell silent, weighing the possibilities in his mind. “Those wills give four men a hell of a motive to make sure Miss Stansfield doesn’t live long enough to get married and sign a new will. Assuming they didn’t already have one.”

“Damn,” Savage swore. “But why leave the wills here for us to find?”

“They didn’t need the actual documents, they just needed to know their contents. And they couldn’t take the first will; they need it. But it was a mistake not to take the new one. They should’ve known someone would find them, sooner or later, and recognize their importance.”

“Well, they take Ballard out of the running,” Savage observed.

Matt nodded. “Yeah, it looks that way,” he said. “But if the men at her company know about the new will, or they know about her plans, I don’t like her chances.”

Savage agreed. “Yeah. Either way, she was smart to go on the lam – if that’s what she did. Now we gotta come up with a lead on where she might’ve gone.” 

“What about an address book or appointment calendar? You find anything like that?”

Before Savage could answer, the door to the hallway opened, and Karen and Mrs. O’Brien walked in. “Miss Charlotte kept them in her briefcase,” the housekeeper said. She looked around the room, then asked, “You didn’t find it?”

“No,” Savage replied.

“It should be here,” Mrs. O’Brien protested.

“Unless she took it with her,” Karen pointed out. “Did you find anything?”

“Nothing that she might’ve found at the company offices,” Matt replied, “but we did find something else.” He explained about the two wills, then asked, “You find anything?”

“Actually, we did,” Karen replied, “or, rather, we didn’t find something.” Matt raised his eyebrows quizzically. She explained, “Something that should have been there but wasn’t.”

“What was it?” Matt asked.

“Miss Stansfield’s train case. She always takes it with her when she goes away, like to the country for the weekend. It wasn’t in its usual place on the shelf in her closet, or anywhere else in her room.”

“So if it’s gone – and her briefcase, too . . . ,” Matt began, thinking out loud.

Karen finished the thought. “That means she left voluntarily. And if she found anything at the office, she must’ve taken it with her.”

“Could be,” Savage said. “But someone could’ve snatched her after she left here.”

“Or not,” Karen said. “She could be hiding out somewhere.”

“If that’s the case, the men who ransacked this house are looking for her,” Matt pointed out. “We have to find her first.”

“Someone has to know where she is,” Karen said. “My money’s on her girlfriends.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Friday_

_Karen Page_

The morning after the search of Charlie’s townhouse, the three women she had picked to run Stansfield Radio Technology, Inc., with her were seated around the conference table at Nelson & Murdock. Karen brought in the coffee tray, then took a seat at the far end of the table, her steno book in front of her. Foggy and Matt followed her. Foggy stood at the head of the table with Matt on his right. “Good morning, ladies,” Foggy said.

“Good morning,” they replied.

“Thank you for coming,” Foggy cleared his throat, then continued. “I’m Franklin Nelson, but you can call me ‘Foggy’.” He smiled. Two of the women chuckled nervously. “This,” he said, gesturing to his right, “is my partner, Matt Murdock.” Matt inclined his head in the women’s direction. 

Once the two lawyers took their seats, the women introduced themselves: Edith Thornton, Susan Myers, and Marie Layton. As they did so, Karen followed along on the list of names provided by Rena Savage, matching their names and faces. Edith was the tall brunette seated to Foggy’s left. Elegantly and expensively dressed, she seemed to be looking down her nose at the shabby law office. The petite, black-haired woman sitting next to her was Susan Myers. Marie was sitting closest to Karen. Shorter than Edith, she had light brown hair that fell to her shoulders in masses of curls, surrounding her open, round face. 

“We understand you ladies are friends of Charlotte Stansfield,” Foggy began. All three women nodded. “As I believe you already know, she has been missing since last weekend. We’re hoping you may be able to help us locate her.”

“How can we help?” asked Edith.

“We don’t know,” Matt replied. “You may know something without knowing that it could help. Why don’t we start with the basics – how do you know Charlie, uh, that is, Miss Stansfield?”

“Oh, don’t worry about calling her ‘Charlie’,” Marie said airily. “Everyone calls her that.”

Edith gave her a sharp look, as if disapproving the informality, but merely said, “All right. I’ll start.”

One by one, the three women confirmed what Charlie had told them. Edith and Marie were Charlie’s business school classmates. Susan was a teaching assistant, working toward her Ph.D., when Charlie was taking summer courses at RPI. In spite of their education and accomplishments, all of them had been unable to find employment in their chosen fields. 

Edith’s MBA was in accounting, and she’d recently passed the CPA exam, but none of the big accounting firms would even grant her an interview. If Charlie’s plans came to fruition, she would be the Treasurer and Chief Accountant at Stansfield Radio Technology, Inc., but until then, she was making a living as a secretary-bookkeeper for a small magazine publisher. 

Marie had earned her degree in marketing, and she was slated to be the corporate Secretary and Director of Marketing when Charlie took over the company. Until that happened, she was working as a secretary at one of the big advertising agencies. 

Susan would be Charlie’s Vice President and Director of Research and Development. For now, despite her Ph.D. in electrical engineering, she was working as a lab technician and keeping her mouth shut. She had learned the hard way that the man running the lab might scoff at her ideas privately but had no scruples about claiming them as his own.

As Karen listened to the three women’s stories, she realized they were a lot like her own. When she left her home in Fagan Corners, Vermont, after the deaths of her mother and younger brother, she took the bus to Burlington, the state’s largest city. There, she believed, she would be able to pursue her dream of becoming a journalist. 

She wasn’t only pursuing her dream. She couldn’t stay at home any longer, knowing her father no longer wanted her there, after her brother Kevin’s death. Her father had left her in charge that night, the night Kevin sneaked out of the house to go joyriding with his good-for-nothing friend, Todd Neiman. She was the one who got the call when Todd crashed the car. She was the one who had to call her father, before she rushed to the scene of the accident – too late. In his grief, her father blamed her for letting Kevin sneak out that night. Her best friend, Louise Gagnon, insisted it wasn’t her fault. Karen knew Louise was right. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t forgive herself. And she couldn’t face her father’s bitterness and recriminations, day after day. Finally she realized there was nothing left for her in Fagan Corners. She had to leave.

In Burlington, she found a waitressing job to tide her over until she could land a job as a reporter. When she wasn’t working, she went to City Council and school board meetings, then went back to her tiny apartment to write up what had transpired. Some nights, she ventured into the seedier parts of the city, as if she was covering the crime beat. A few of her articles were picked up by a neighborhood weekly; it wasn’t a real newspaper, to her way of thinking, more a place for local businesses to run their ads cheaply. But it was nice to see her byline there. 

After ten of her articles had been published, she went to see the editor of the _Burlington Journal_ , the city’s major daily newspaper. He flipped through her clippings without reading them, then told her, “We’re not hiring for the women’s pages right now.”

“That’s good,” she retorted, “because I’m not applying to write for them. I want to report the news.”

The editor gave a harsh bark of a laugh. “The newsroom is no place for a girl,” he declared.

“Try me,” Karen urged him.

“Not on your life. But we do have an opening for a copy boy – or, in your case, a copy girl.”

Karen took the job. It was a foot in the door, and maybe it would lead to something better. She stuck with it for two years, running between the reporters and the editors, delivering the stories that rolled off the reporters’ typewriters. She learned to ignore the men who called her “honey” and “sweetheart” and to take the long way around in order to avoid the desks of the ass-grabbers. In spare moments between the shouts of “Copy!” or when the paper came out, she read the stories she was shuttling back and forth and re-wrote them in her head. Her re-writes were better than most of them. But after two years, she had to face the facts: she was never going to become a reporter at the _Journal._

She gave notice, packed up her few belongings, and boarded a bus for New York City. Maybe they would be more open-minded there. She was destined to be disappointed, yet again. She wasn’t interested in writing for the women’s pages, and no one would hire a woman to cover hard news. The only person who gave her any encouragement was Ben Urich at the _Daily_ _Bugle_ , but he was a reporter, not an editor, and he didn’t have a say in who was hired at the paper. So here she was, at Nelson & Murdock. The three women sitting at the table with her had more education, but it made no difference. Being female disqualified them all.

When Karen turned her attention back to the meeting, Foggy was asking, “When did you last see or speak with Charlie?”

“About ten days ago,” Susan said. “We all met for lunch, to discuss how her plans were coming along.”

“Same for me,” Marie said.

“That was the last time I saw her, too,” Edith said, “but she called me Saturday afternoon.” 

“What did you discuss?” Matt asked.

“She said she’d found something in the company’s offices that she wanted to show me. She wanted me to see it so she could be sure it was what she thought it was – something to that effect. She sounded excited.”

“Did she say what she’d found?”

“No, only that she’d call me again and arrange to meet so she could show me . . . whatever it was that she found.” Edith shook her head sadly. “That was the last I heard from her.”

“Did she say anything else, like what she was planning, where she might have been going?” Foggy asked.

Edith took a moment before she answered. “No, nothing like that,” she said, frowning. “It was a very short conversation. She sounded like she was in a hurry.”

“Did Charlie ever tell any of you she suspected that the men running the company were diverting company funds?” Matt asked.

“You mean, like embezzling?” Edith asked. Matt nodded. “She never said anything like that to me. Do you think that’s what she was referring to in our phone call?”

“Maybe,” Matt said. “We don’t know for sure.”

“Well, she never said anything about it to me,” Susan said.

“Me neither,” Marie agreed. “Edith’s the one she’d tell about something like that.”

“That’s true,” Edith confirmed. She pressed her lips together, apparently thinking, Then she said, “There’s something else you should know about Charlie . . . .”

“All right,” Foggy said.

“She adored her father.”

“A daddy’s girl,” Foggy suggested.

“She was that,” Edith agreed, “but it was more than that. She absolutely worshiped him. As in hero worship. And she thought the men who are running the company were betraying him.”

“How?” Matt asked.

“By destroying his legacy, everything he worked for. Charlie would do anything to keep that from happening.”

“Anything?” Matt asked.

“Anything.”

Foggy looked at Marie and Susan. Both nodded their assent. Then he turned to Matt and asked, “Anything else, Matt?”

Matt nodded. “We’re working on the assumption that Charlie left her house on her own. Do you have any idea where she might have gone, who she might have turned to if she thought she was in danger?” he asked.

The three women stared at Matt with horrified expressions on their faces.

“We don’t know that for sure,” Foggy said, raising his hands in a calming gesture. “But if she was, where would she go?”

All three women were silent, apparently thinking. Finally, Edith spoke up, “I have no idea.”

“I don’t, either,” Marie said.

“Me neither,” Susan concurred.

Karen sneaked a glance at Matt. His head was inclined toward each woman as she answered. Karen had a pretty good idea what he was doing. After they answered, he leaned back with his arms crossed.

After a moment, Foggy asked, “Is there anything else you can tell us, that might help us find Charlie?” When no one answered him, he stood up and said, “Then we won’t take any more of your time. Thank you for coming in.” 

Foggy walked their visitors to the door and helped them on with their coats, then returned to the conference room. As soon the outer office door closed and Foggy resumed his seat at the head of the table, Matt said, “She was lying.”

“Who?” Karen asked.

“The one next to you.”

“Marie,” Karen prompted.

“Yeah, her,” Matt confirmed. “She knows where Charlie is. She’s probably been hiding her the whole time.”

“But why lie?” Foggy asked.

“Charlie must have sworn her to secrecy,” Karen said.

“Probably,” Matt agreed. “I’ll pay her a visit tonight and get Charlie to a safe place.”

“You mean Daredevil will,” Foggy said pointedly. Karen shot a sideways glance at him. She hated to see him sniping at Matt like that, but she wasn’t surprised. He had never accepted that Matt was Daredevil. But he had to know Matt wasn’t going to give up his alter ego. He knew Matt better than anyone, had been his best friend for years. Maybe that was the problem: Matt had been lying to him for most of that time. She sighed inwardly.

“Yeah, of course,” Matt replied, ignoring Foggy’s accusatory tone.

“Where?” Foggy asked.

“How about Maclain’s penthouse?” Karen suggested.

“Good idea,” Matt said. 

“I’ll call Rena and make the arrangements,” Karen said. She picked up the coffee cups and took the tray to the kitchenette. 

Foggy returned to his office. Matt followed him, leaving the door open. He pulled up one of the client chairs and took a seat. As Foggy lowered himself into the swivel chair behind his desk, he said, “I don’t understand it. They’re all good-looking girls. Why aren’t they married or looking for husbands? It’s not right, them wanting to take over that company.”

Now back at her desk, Karen gritted her teeth and said nothing.

“Well, it _is_ 1955,” Matt pointed out. “Things are different now, since the war.”

“Too different, if you ask me.”

“Maybe,” Matt conceded. “But, you know, they probably just haven’t met the right man yet. When they do . . . .”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Foggy agreed. “Or maybe – ” He lowered his voice. “Maybe they aren’t interested, you know, in men. Did you pick up anything like that?”

“No,” Matt said doubtfully, “but it’s possible, I suppose.” 

“That Marie, she couldn’t take her eyes off you,” Foggy observed. “The other two, I’m not so sure.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Foggy sighed, then picked up a stack of papers. “I have to get started on our opposition to the summary judgment motion in _Sullivan_ ,” he said. “Ugh.”

Matt stood up. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Karen glared at Matt as he made his way back to his own office. He of all people should understand what Edith, Susan, and Marie were talking about. The obstacles he’d had to overcome as a blind man weren’t that different from those the three women were facing. Karen saw the framed diploma, inscribed “S _umma Cum Laude_ ,” on the wall of Matt’s office every day. She knew what that meant. When he graduated from Columbia Law, Matt should have had his pick of prestigious judicial clerkships and lucrative offers from the big Midtown and Wall Street firms. Instead, he was here, practicing law out of a shabby office in a rundown building in Hell’s Kitchen. There was only one reason Matt never received those offers: he was blind. Yet he seemed unable to see the parallels between the women’s struggles and his own. Well, he was a man, after all, Karen told herself. In the end, his blindness hadn’t stood in the way of his dream of being a lawyer. Edith’s, Susan’s, and Mary’s dreams were still out of reach. As were her own.

  
_Duncan Maclain_

Maclain was returning from his afternoon walk with Schnucke in Riverside Park, when Rena’s voice stopped him on the way to the office.

“You’re back. Good,” she said.

He turned toward her, a questioning expression on his face.

“The Stansfield bunch, all four of them, will be here at three,” she explained.

“Good work,” he told her, “getting them here so quickly.”

“I’d love to take the credit,” she said, “but they called us, demanding an ‘immediate’ appointment.”

“Did they?”

“They did,” Rena affirmed. “Something about a break-in at their offices.”

“Well, send them in when they get here. And listen and record as usual,” Maclain instructed her, referring to the system that recorded meetings in the office and allowed Rena to listen in while taking down every word in shorthand.

“Of course.”

Maclain turned and followed Schnucke into the office, mulling over the turn of events. So the Stansfield group wanted to hire him, did they? They couldn’t, of course; he had already been hired. But they didn’t need to know that. Not right away.

A half hour later, Maclain was fitting a cigarette into his amber and silver cigarette holder when Rena’s voice came through the intercom. “They’re here.”

“Send them in.”

Maclain set the unlit cigarette and its holder in the crystal ash tray next to his right hand and rose to greet the four men, whose four sets of footsteps revealed their number, as they walked into the office. The leather couch to his left creaked as Spud got to his feet.

The man closest to Maclain’s desk spoke first, in a pleasant baritone with a slight accent that revealed his Midwest origins. He introduced himself as “Paul Fairall, President of Stansfield Radio Technology, Inc. My colleagues are Horace King, Vice President in charge of day-to-day operations and production, Rodney Irwin, Corporate Secretary and Sales Manager, and Emmett Olson, Corporate Treasurer and Chief Accountant. Thank you for agreeing to see us.” 

“Of course, gentlemen.” He waved a hand to his left. “My partner, Samuel Savage.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Spud said.

With the introductions out of the way, Maclain said, “Please, take a seat.” When the rustle of cloth told him the four men had done so, he continued. “How can I be of service?”

Fairall cleared his throat, then answered, “As I told your girl when I telephoned, there was a break-in at our offices this past weekend. We want you to locate the perpetrator and secure the return of our property.”

“You’ve notified the police, of course,” Maclain commented.

“Uh, actually, no,” Fairall replied. “There are, um, sensitive, ah, corporate matters involved. We thought it inadvisable to involve the police.”

“I see.” Maclain paused to light his cigarette, took a drag, then set it in the ash tray. “Do you have a suspect?”

“We have a pretty good idea,” Fairall began, but he was interrupted by another man. A man with a deep, raspy voice, roughened by the cigars whose odor surrounded him.

“Quit pussyfooting around, Paul,” he said. “We all know who it was.”

“Maybe you do, Horace,” Fairall retorted, “but I don’t.”

“There’s no one else it could be,” Horace – apparently Horace King, the Vice President – replied. “You know that as well as I do.”

Maclain interceded. “Regardless of your degree of certainty, gentlemen, who is this suspect?”

“Charlotte Stansfield,” King replied.

“Do the rest of you agree?” Maclain asked. In response, he heard murmured “yesses” from four voices.

Maclain took a drag on his cigarette, then said, “You said her name is Stansfield. The same as the company?” He knew the answer, of course, but he wanted to hear their answers.

“Yes,” Fairall replied, “the daughter of James Stansfield, who founded the company. He died two years ago.”

“And that’s the only connection?”

A new voice, a clear tenor, answered him. “No, since Jim’s death, she is the majority shareholder in the company.”

Spud identified the voice for him. “Emmett Olson, treasurer.”

“Uh, sorry,” Olson said.

Maclain ignored the apology and continued, “Forgive me, gentlemen, if I seem confused. Assuming Miss Stansfield is the culprit, how is this a theft if she’s the majority shareholder?”

“She’s just a girl,” King declared, “she has no right – ”

“Actually,” Spud drawled, “she has every right, legally, that is.”

“You don’t understand,” Fairall protested. “Jim – her father – was an engineering genius, a brilliant inventor. But he indulged Charlotte shamefully, filling her head with ideas about taking over the company some day.”

“Impossible,” scoffed another voice – Irwin, apparently.

“Ever since Jim died, she’s been visiting the office, wasting our time with impertinent questions,” Fairall said.

“As if going to business school makes her capable of running a company,” Irwin added scornfully.

Maclain frowned. “I take it you’re not concerned that she might actually take over the company.”

“Not at all,” Fairall replied. “Once she marries that young man of hers, she’ll forget all about it.”

“All right,” Maclain said. He finished his cigarette and extinguished it in the ash tray. “What was taken in this theft, as you call it?”

Olson spoke up quickly, maybe a little too quickly. “Financial reports, just routine financial reports.”

“Nothing she’d have any use for, I assure you,” Fairall added. “Assuming she even knew what they were.”

“You say you don’t know where Miss Stansfield is at present?”

“No,” Fairall said. “She has not appeared at the office, and when I telephoned her home, her housekeeper said he hasn’t been there since the weekend.” 

“And you have no idea where she might have gone?”

“None.” Fairall again.

Maclain steepled his hands in front of his face. “Well, gentlemen, it seems you’re in a real pickle. Unfortunately, I am unable to help you, as I already have a client in this matter.”

“You what?” King bellowed, surging to his feet. “You double-crossing . . . .”

“That’s enough,” Spud said, his voice placing him next to King. “Time to go.”

Muttering curses under his breath, King allowed Spud to escort him from the office. The other three men followed, grumbling. At the door, Fairall turned back and told Maclain, “You haven’t heard the end of this.”

After the door closed behind them, Maclain turned to Spud and observed, “I’m sure we haven’t.” He lit a new cigarette and leaned back in his chair, smoking.

“Do you think they can cause us any real trouble?” Spud asked. “I mean, we did pump them for information under false pretenses.”

“Let them try,” Maclain said dismissively, waving the hand holding his cigarette. “I doubt they’ll get far. I’m more concerned about what we learned from them, that we didn’t know before.”

“Which is?”

Maclain blew a smoke ring before answering. “They know of Miss Stansfield’s interest in taking over the company and running it herself. Maybe not her specific plans, but they know, in general, what she wants to do. That makes her a threat to them.” 

“Right,” Spud agreed grimly.

“So tell me about our visitors.”

Spud obliged. “Fairall: tall, white hair, what you’d call distinguished looking. More like a stuffed shirt, if you ask me. Smooth. I didn’t pick up any obvious lies.”

“Me neither.” Maclain finished his cigarette and put it out. “Go on.”

“King: shorter than Fairall, and stocky, balding. Rougher around the edges. I’ll bet he put in some time on the factory floor, and not as a boss. Irwin: typical salesman type. Carries about twenty extra pounds. Dark brown hair, probably a dye job. Big red nose; my guess would be too many three-martini lunches. Olson: tall and thin, gray hair, thick horn-rimmed glasses. Typical accountant. He seemed nervous, kept looking at Fairall before answering you. Those records Charlie took are more important than he let on.”

Maclain nodded. “Agreed. I could hear it in his voice: a slight tremor when he answered my question about the contents of the records. And it sounded as if his throat was closing up on him.”

“What now?” Spud asked.

“A private conversation with Mr. Olson, I think,” Maclain replied. Spud started to get to his feet but stopped when Maclain spoke again. “Did you find out anything about Murdock?”

Spud lowered himself back onto the couch. “I did.”

“Tell me.”

“He was raised by his father. His mother wasn’t around. Took off or something, after the boy was born. The father was a boxer, known as ‘Battlin’ Jack.’ Decent fighter, by all accounts, but he lost more than he won. Supposedly he was paid to lose, by the bookies, you know. About a year after the boy was blinded, he won a fight he was paid to throw. He was gunned down in an alley in Hell’s Kitchen right after that. The bookies must’ve been plenty sore.”

“Apparently so,” Maclain commented dryly. “Anything else?”

“Yep. After Jack was killed, Matthew was sent to the St. Agnes Orphanage. I found a guy, name of Sean Donahue, who was there at the same time. Seems like Matthew was a scrappy kid, always in trouble for fighting.”

“Fighting? A blind boy?”

“That’s what Donahue said,” Spud confirmed. “The boys who’d been there for a while, the ones who’d tangled with him, they steered clear. But when new boys arrived, they thought the blind boy was an easy mark. They learned they were wrong, the hard way. But Murdock always had to fight off the newcomers.”

“You’re sure he was talking about the same Murdock?”

“Positive. Donahue mentioned that Matthew had gone on to make something of himself, got an education and became a lawyer. And when we were at Miss Stansfield’s townhouse, the housekeeper asked him if he was related to Battlin’ Jack, and Murdock said Jack was his dad.”

“Interesting,” Maclain mused, thinking out loud. “I suppose he could have picked up some boxing moves from his dad, before he was blinded.”

“Maybe,” Savage agreed. “And there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“When we were searching the library at the townhouse, Murdock seemed to know where things were, you know, the layout of the room. When I asked him about it, he said Miss Page had described it to him, but I didn’t see or hear her doing that. So I’m thinking there are still things we don’t know about Matt Murdock.”

“You’re probably right.” Maclain lit a cigarette and smoked as he considered what Spud had found out. It confirmed what Maclain was already thinking: Murdock wasn’t an ordinary blind man. Apparently, he could do things that even Maclain couldn’t do, despite all of his rigorous training. Still, Maclain felt he had taken the measure of the man. Murdock was a man he could work with.

Rena knocked and entered the room. “While you were meeting with the Stansfield bunch,” she said, “Miss Page called. She thinks they have a lead on Miss Stansfield’s whereabouts.”

“They do?” Maclain asked.

“They think she’s been staying with one of her girlfriends. They’re sending Daredevil to collect her tonight.”

“Daredevil, huh?” Spud asked.

“That’s what Miss Page said. They’d like to bring her here, if that’s all right. They think she’ll be safe here.”

“Of course,” Maclain replied. “Tell her it’s all right. And tell her I’ll call Murdock shortly and bring him up to date about our meeting with the Stansfield bunch, as you call them, and my plans for a private talk with Mr. Olson.”

“Will do.” Rena turned and left.

“Well, that changes things,” Spud observed. “Or does it?”

“Not really,” Maclain said. “Finding Charlie is only part of the job. The other part is finding out who’s skimming funds from the company. I still want to have that chat with Mr. Olson. I’ll go. You need to be here when Charlie arrives.”

“OK,” Spud said reluctantly. “But I don’t like this. Take Cappo with you.”


	5. Chapter 5

_Friday_

_Duncan Maclain_

As Captain Duncan Maclain and his Seeing-Eye dog, Schnucke, stepped off the elevator at the 12th floor, the elevator man told him, “It’s to the right, then straight ahead.”

Maclain thanked the man and tipped him a quarter, then turned right and followed Schnucke. He hadn’t called ahead, preferring to surprise Olson, but he was betting the man would be at home at this time of the evening, a little after nine o’clock. When Schnucke stopped, Maclain reached out, found the door, and ran his hand over the raised numerals and letter: “12B.” This was the place. Then he felt the door move under his hand. “What the – ?” he thought. His four senses on alert, he pushed the door open and ordered Schnucke forward. 

They walked down a short entry hall that opened into a larger space, probably a living room. Two strides into the room, the German Shepherd gave a low whine and stopped, refusing to move forward. Maclain knew there had to be a good reason, but he couldn’t detect it at first. Then his sensitive nose picked up what the dog must have smelled: the coppery aroma of blood and the acrid odor of gunpowder. 

He dropped his hold on Schnucke’s harness and took a cautious step forward with his cane extended, probing in front of him. Three steps later, the cane hit something hard, metallic. Maclain squatted and traced its outline with his gloved hand: a revolver. He searched with the cane in all directions from the weapon until it hit something soft. He swore under his breath, pretty sure he knew what – no, who – it was. He knelt on the carpeted floor next to the body and found a hand, about a foot away from the gun. He leaned down and sniffed the hand. Nothing but the aroma of old nicotine stains. He followed the arm up to the neck and felt for a pulse. Nothing. But the flesh was warm. 

He levered himself back to his feet, swearing again under his breath. Then he went very still, knitting his brow as he listened intently. There was no one moving around in the apartment. The killer, whoever he was, was gone – probably only minutes before Maclain arrived. He cursed his bad timing, then called Schnucke over to him and picked up her harness. He made his way down the hall to the elevator. When it arrived, the operator greeted him with a cheerful, “Hop right in.”

Maclain shook his head. “I’m not going down, not yet. I need you to send my driver up. A large Negro man, name of ‘Cappo.’ You’ll find him out front with my car, a black Cadillac.” He handed the man a dollar, well above the going rate, but he had to be sure the man would do as he asked.

The elevator man took the bill. “You got it, boss.”

After the elevator doors closed, Maclain returned to apartment 12B and stood in the doorway, waiting for Cappo to arrive. He could do what he needed to do himself, if he had to, but it would go faster using Cappo’s eyes, and he shouldn’t delay too long, before calling the police.

Maclain only had to wait a couple of minutes before he heard the elevator doors opening and footsteps approaching: Cappo’s footsteps. They stopped a few feet away from him.

“You sent for me, Captain?” Cappo asked.

“Yes,” Maclain confirmed. “I seem to have stumbled into a . . . situation,” he added wryly. He jerked his head toward the interior of the apartment. He ordered Schnucke to stay, then took hold of Cappo’s arm. The two men stepped into the apartment.

“I’ll say you did, Captain,” Cappo commented when they entered the living room.

Maclain chuckled softly, then asked, “Are you wearing your driving gloves?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. But try not to touch anything, anyway.” Probably an unnecessary warning.

Cappo confirmed Maclain’s thought. “Of course not, sir.”

“Now, take a look around, tell me what you see.”

Cappo took a moment, apparently surveying the room. He let out his breath before he spoke. “There’s a davenport along the wall to your right, two o’clock. The, uh, body is lying on his back at the far end. A revolver on the floor about a foot from his right hand. Can’t see a bullet hole from here, must be on the other side of his head. Some blood around his head, but not much.”

“All right,” Maclain said. “Do you see a telephone anywhere?”

“Yessir, there’s one on a table in the foyer. We passed it coming in.”

“Take me there,” Maclain ordered. Cappo led him to the phone, and he dialed a number he knew by heart. When he hung up the phone, he turned to Cappo and said, “They’re on their way. Take another look around, will you, before they get here?”

“Yessir.” Cappo stepped into the living room and turned to his left to circle the space while staying clear of the area on the right where the body lay. His footsteps stopped when he reached the far corner. “Looks like a desk,” he reported. “Typewriter sitting on top, with a sheet of paper in it. Just one word typed on it, ‘Sorry’.”

Maclain frowned. Not much of a suicide note, if that’s what it was. “Anything else?” he asked.

“There’s a framed photograph on the desk. Looks like, uh, him and a woman. His wife, I guess.”

“Probably,” Maclain said, thinking out loud. “I wonder where she is. You’d better check the rest of the apartment, while I check the desk.”

“Yessir.” Cappo guided his employer to the desk, then began a circuit of the apartment. When Maclain heard his footsteps receding, he began examining the desk. It was as Cappo had described it: the typewriter, the single sheet of paper, the photograph in its frame. Cappo hadn’t mentioned the desk calendar and matched set of pens in a wooden holder, but Maclain doubted they were relevant. It was only when he crouched down and ran his gloved hands over the drawer fronts that he found something interesting: the file drawer on the left side of the desk was stuck at an angle. He considered this for a moment and decided someone must have been in a hurry to close it. The contents of that drawer needed to be looked at. But not by him.

As Maclain rose from his crouch, he noticed something else: a rich floral scent lingering in the air. It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

Presently the sound of footsteps grew louder, until Cappo was standing in front of him. “No one else here,” he reported. Maclain gave a sigh of relief but still wondered where the wife was. He hoped she hadn’t witnessed, well, whatever had happened here.

“All right,” Maclain said. “Let’s wait outside the apartment.” Schnucke stood up as the two men exited, and Maclain stood next to her, holding her harness. They only had to wait for a few minutes before he heard the sound of the elevator ascending. When it reached the twelfth floor, the doors opened, and two men stepped out. They were well known to him, as he was to them.

“Well, Dunc, Cappo, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” Inspector Larry Davis of the Homicide Bureau greeted them.

“Nice to see you, too, Larry,” Maclain responded. He waved a hand in the general direction of the apartment. “See for yourself.”

Davis and his Sergeant, Aloysius Archer, brushed past Maclain and Cappo and entered the apartment. Maclain heard them walking around the living room and talking in low voices, too low for him to make out their words. Then they returned.

“What am I doing here, Dunc?” Davis asked. “You know I work homicides, right? This looks like a cut-and-dried case of suicide.”

Maclain shook his head grimly. “You’re only seeing what someone wants you to see, Larry.”

“And you don’t?”

“Exactly. I can’t see what they want me to see, so I can’t be misled by it.”

Davis sighed wearily. It wasn’t the first time they’d had a conversation like this. “Tell me what I’m really looking at.”

“Murder, of course. Staged to look like suicide.”

“And you know this, because – ?”

“The man in there – ” Maclain gestured toward the living room. “ – is Emmet Olson, correct?”

“Correct.”

“He is the Treasurer and Chief Accountant of a company called Stansfield Radio Technology, Inc. I have reason to believe there have been some financial, shall we say, shenanigans going on at that company.”

“And you think this Olson was behind them,” Sergeant Archer prompted.

Maclain pursed his lips, thinking. “Possibly. Or he knew about them.”

“Knew too much, you mean?” Davis asked.

“Yes. He and the other men who run the company came to see me today, about a . . . a theft of financial records from the company offices. Mr. Olson seemed nervous, as if he knew more than he was letting on. I thought it advisable to have a private conversation with him. So I came here, unannounced, and found – this.” Maclain waved a hand.

“But if he was involved in the financial shenanigans, as you call them, and feared exposure, wouldn’t that be a motive for suicide?” Davis asked. “He left a note, and the gun is next to the body, where it would fall if he shot himself.”

“You know better than that,” Maclain chided the Inspector. “This was a head shot. He probably was dead before he hit the floor. The gun should be right next to him, maybe still in his hand, or even under him. Not a foot away from his hand. And why is his arm extended full length like that?”

“I’ve worked a lot of homicides, seen a lot of dead bodies,” Davis pointed out. “He could’ve fallen like that. It’s not out of the question.”

“Possibly,” Maclain conceded, “but I repeat, you are being misled by what you see. It’s what you don’t see that’s important.”

“Like what?” Archer asked.

“You will of course check the gun for fingerprints. I’ll give you odds you’ll find Mr. Olson’s fingerprints, and only his, and only where they would be if he held it to shoot himself. The rest of the weapon will have been wiped clean. But a paraffin test will prove he didn’t fire the gun. And the note?” Maclain scoffed. “A single word, typed. Anyone could have typed it. And I’ll wager the typewriter’s been wiped clean, too, like the gun. It also looks like someone was going through the file drawer in the desk. I’m telling you, Larry, it doesn’t add up.”

“All right,” Davis said resignedly. “We’ll look into it.”

“And while you’re at it, you might look into the whereabouts of Olson’s wife. She’s not here, obviously. If she witnessed this – ”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Davis interrupted. “We’ll make sure she’s safe.”

“There’s one more thing – ” Maclain began.

“There always is,” griped Davis.

“A young lady, the majority shareholder in the company, is missing,” Maclain told him. “She’s also the prime suspect in the, uh, alleged theft of documents from the company.”

“How can it be theft?” Archer asked incredulously. “You just said it’s her company.”

“Exactly,” Maclain agreed, “but the men who run the company don’t see it that way. And the young lady is a little too clever for her own good.”

“Why hasn’t this been reported?” Davis demanded.

“Oh, it was,” Maclain assured him. “The patrol officers who took the report thought she’d run off with a new boyfriend.”

“Damn flatfoots,” Davis swore. “What’s the girl’s name?”

“Charlotte Stansfield,” Maclain replied. “And what happened to Mr. Olson here tells me she’s in danger, too.”

“No kidding,” Davis agreed. “You have any leads on her whereabouts?”

“Nothing definite,” Maclain said, “but I’ll keep you informed.”

“You do that. We’ll take it from here.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” Maclain found Schnucke, took hold of her harness, and followed her and Cappo out of the building.

  
_Matt Murdock_

Two stories above Olson’s apartment, Daredevil crouched on the roof of the building, listening intently as Maclain arrived, found the body, sent for Cappo, and jawed with the homicide Inspector. Maclain was right: this was no suicide. They were dealing with a killer. Olson died because he knew too much. Charlie not only knew too much, she had proof. She would be the killer’s next target, but only if he got to her first. Matt couldn’t let that happen. He stood up and sprinted across the roof, heading to Marie Layton’s apartment.

Soon he was standing on the fire escape outside Marie’s living room window. Using a thin-bladed putty knife, he flipped open the lock, raised the window, and stepped inside. As he did so, he heard the sharp intake of air that he recognized as the prelude to a scream. He strode quickly across the room and placed his hand, gently but firmly, on Marie’s mouth. Her heart rate surged.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he told her. “Nelson & Murdock sent me. We need to get Charlie somewhere safe. Nod if you understand.”

She nodded, and he released her, moving back a few steps, in hopes of seeming less menacing. If that was possible for a man in a devil suit. Gradually, her heartbeat and breathing slowed a bit, and she spoke. “You . . . you’re Daredevil.”

“I am.”

“But, but Charlie . . . she isn’t here,” Marie said.

Matt cocked his head, exploring the apartment with his senses. Marie’s heartbeat said she wasn’t lying, and he couldn’t detect anyone else in the apartment. Damn.

“But she was here, wasn’t she?” he asked.

“Yes,” Marie said, then burst into tears. 

Matt stayed where he was, making no move to comfort her. A bawling female was his worst nightmare. He’d rather face the Hand’s ninjas. But when the sobbing continued unabated, he stepped forward and awkwardly patted Marie’s shoulder. Eventually, her sobs subsided and turned into sniffs. She pulled out a hankie and wiped her eyes. Then she said, “It’s all my fault – that she’s gone, I mean.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Matt told her.

“No,” she insisted. “She was here this morning, when I left to meet with the lawyers. When I got back, she was gone. I shouldn’t have told her where I was going.”

Matt was perplexed. “Why would that make her leave?” he asked.

“She didn’t trust me, don’t you see?” she explained. “She didn’t trust me not to tell. I talk too much. She always tells me that.” Suddenly, her heartbeat and breathing sped up. She was afraid, Matt realized. Of what? She answered his unspoken question. “She’s gonna be _so_ mad. You have to tell her . . . when you find her, you have to tell her, I didn’t spill the beans.”

“I will.” Matt assured her.

“How did you know, anyway? I mean, how did you know I was lying, when, when I said I didn’t know where she was?”

“Uh, it was, um, we . . . ,” Matt stammered, caught off guard. “The lawyers told me,” he said more confidently. “In their line of work, you learn pretty quickly how to tell if someone’s lying to you. I guess.”

“Oh.”

“But I don’t think you have to worry about Charlie being mad at you. After all, she trusted you enough to come to you when she needed a place to hide,” Matt pointed out.

That seemed to calm her. “Yes, she did,” she agreed.

“Where would she go now?” Matt asked.

Marie shook her head sadly. “I’ve been wracking my brains all day, asking myself the same question. I don’t know.”

“Would she have gone to Edith or Susan?”

“I don’t think so. Edith lives with her parents, in their co-op on Park Avenue, and Susan has two roommates. They wouldn’t be able to hide her.”

“Can you think of anywhere else?”

“Her family has a summer house, upstate somewhere, on a lake.”

“We’ll check it out,” Matt assured her. “In the meantime, if you hear from Charlie, tell her she needs to contact Nelson & Murdock. They can keep her safe.”

“But you don’t know Charlie like I do,” Marie protested. “She’s stubborn, she thinks she can take care of herself.” She paused for a moment, then continued, “No, that’s not right. She _can_ take care of herself. She doesn’t need anyone to protect her.”

“Right now, she does, even if she doesn’t know it,” Matt told her. “If she won’t contact, uh – ” Matt stopped himself, just before he said “us.” “If she won’t contact them, you need to do it. Even if she swears you to secrecy.”

“All right,” she said doubtfully.

“No, I mean it, Marie, this is a matter of life or death. Charlie’s life or death. You have to promise you’ll do it.”

“I will. Honest.”

“Good girl,” Matt replied. He strode to the window, opened it, and slipped out into the night.


	6. Chapter 6

_Friday, a week later_

_Karen Page_

Karen looked up from her typewriter. Matt was pacing back and forth between his office and the reception area, alternately clenching his jaw and muttering – curses, she thought – under his breath. 

A week had passed with no sign of Charlie. Daredevil searched for her every night, but the city was too big, too many places to hide. And that was only Manhattan; he wasn’t even attempting to search in the outer boroughs. Marie insisted she hadn’t heard from Charlie. Neither had Edith or Susan. Charlie’s fiancé, Christian Ballard, told Savage he hadn’t heard from her, either. Foggy and Karen went to visit the housekeeper, Mrs. O’Brien, at Charlie’s townhouse on 65th Street, but she told them Charlie hadn’t been there. Savage got the location of the Stansfield summer house from Ballard and took a drive upstate, but found the place closed up and empty. 

Matt had been at it for a good ten minutes when she decided she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Matt!” she called out. “What are you doing?”

He stopped at the door to his office and spun around to face her. “What d’you mean?”

“This,” she replied, waving her hand back and forth.

“I can’t . . . we have to find her,” he said.

“I agree, but how is this helping?”

He crossed the room and sat on the corner of her desk. “What am I supposed to do?” he demanded, throwing his hands up in frustration. “How can I find her?”

“I don’t know, but this isn’t helping. All you’re doing is driving me nuts.”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “But the killer’s still out there. We can’t let him get to her first. If he hasn’t already.”

Karen’s heart sank. He was right. Then something occurred to her. “What about Captain Maclain’s contact with the police, that Inspector? Maybe he’s found out something that will help.”

Matt got to his feet and swooped in to plant a peck on her check. “Have I told you lately that you’re brilliant?”

“No,” Karen said under her breath. Giving no sign that he’d heard her, Matt went back to his office. She went back to her typing – and the idea that was starting to take shape in her mind.

  
_Matt Murdock_

Cappo picked up Matt outside the office and drove him and Maclain downtown, to the Homicide Bureau at police headquarters on Centre Street. Schnucke led them across the bullpen where the detectives worked, amid the clacking of typewriter keys, the ringing of phones, and men yelling back and forth across the room. Inspector Davis’s cramped office was at the far end. Files and papers covered every surface in the space, even the seats of the visitors’ chairs next to the Inspector’s desk. Davis swept the papers to the floor, and Matt and Maclain took their seats on the hard wooden chairs. Schnucke settled in her usual place at Maclain’s feet. Davis closed the door, blocking some of the racket from the bullpen, but the smells of cigar and cigarette smoke, burnt coffee, and too many men in too small a space were pervasive, embedded in the walls.

After Maclain introduced Matt, Davis got straight to the point. “I hate to say it, Dunc, but it looks like you were right about Olson. It wasn’t suicide. And don’t look so smug.”

“Who, me?” Maclain quipped. “I knew all along that you’d get there on your own, Larry.”

“Damn right I would.”

“Any leads on a suspect?” Maclain asked.

Davis sighed heavily. “Not really. The doorman and elevator man swear no one went up to Olson’s apartment in the three hours before you arrived. That’s when he was killed, according to the coroner. But there’s a service entrance at the back of the building, and a freight elevator there that the killer could’ve used.”

“So that’s a dead end,” Matt commented. “What about the neighbors?”

“No one saw or heard anything,” Davis replied. “It’s a prewar building, high ceilings, thick walls. And only two apartments per floor. The couple who live in the other apartment on the 12th floor had already left for a weekend in the country. The people who live below the Olsons’ apartment were at a dinner party. The family upstairs were at home but didn’t hear a thing.”

“Damn,” Matt swore. “What about the other three men from the company? Do they have alibis?”

“That’s where it gets messy,” Davis replied. He picked up a file and flipped through its pages until he found the report he was looking for. “They all have alibis – more or less. Fairall and King alibi each other. Both say they were at the office, working late, and the other one was there the whole time.”

“On a Friday night?” Matt asked. He frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sounds fishy to me.”

“You got that right,” Davis said dryly. “And it just so happens that no one else was working late. So there’s no one to vouch for them. The third one, Irwin, says he was at Idlewild, seeing off some friends on a flight to Paris. No one can verify that except the friends, and Irwin claims he doesn’t know where they are staying in Paris. Conveniently.”

Matt agreed. “Very convenient.”

After a moment, Davis continued, “We did solve the mystery of the missing wife. So there’s that.”

“Where was she?” Maclain asked.

“In Boston, taking care of her sick mother.”

“Good. If she had discovered him – well, I hate to think of it.”

“Yeah,” Davis agreed. “That was no sight for a woman. They’re not made for that kind of thing. Too emotional, too . . . sensitive. As it was, the wife took the news pretty hard, went into hysterics, or so I’m told. They had to call in a doctor to give her a sleeping pill.”

“Poor woman,” Maclain said. He sat back, apparently thinking, then asked, “What about the company. You looking into it?”

“We have an accountant looking at their books. He hasn’t found any funny business so far. But you were right about Olson’s desk. The file drawer was mostly his personal papers, his will, the mortgage on the apartment, insurance, stuff like that. But there was also a bunch of company papers shoved right in the middle of the personal stuff. The accountant says some of the transactions look fishy.”

“Fishy how?” Matt asked.

“Like someone was skimming from the company’s accounts,” Davis replied.

“Olson, or someone else?”

“No way to know from what we found.”

“It wasn’t Olson,” Maclain asserted. “You said it yourself, Larry, this was a file where he kept his personal papers. Why would a bunch of company papers be stuck in the middle of them?”

“You’re saying someone planted them,” Matt said, “as part of the staged suicide.”

“Exactly.” Maclain leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “It’s the motive for suicide,” he said, waving the hand holding his cigarette. “He was embezzling from the company, and the records Miss Stansfield found would incriminate him. He knew the jig was up, so he committed suicide. That’s what the killer wanted us to believe.”

Davis nodded. “Makes sense to me. But what about Miss Stansfield? Are you any closer to finding her?”

“No,” Maclain replied. “We’ve exhausted all our leads. But if we haven’t found her, well, neither has the killer.”

Matt gave a sigh of relief when Maclain answered without mentioning Daredevil’s involvement in the search for Charlie. Maclain seemed to trust the homicide Inspector, but Davis was a cop, after all. And Daredevil was a vigilante.

“If she has proof of shady dealings at that company, she’s gonna need to show up,” Davis said. “For what it’s worth, none of the men seem to be living beyond their means, but we got no legal way to get a look at their personal finances.”

The three men fell silent. Maclain finished his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray Davis had pushed across his desk. “I guess that’s it, then,” he said, as he grasped Schnucke’s harness and stood up.

“Looks like it,” Davis agreed. “I’ll show you out.”

Matt got to his feet and followed them out of the Homicide Bureau. On the drive uptown, he and Maclain hashed over what they’d learned from Davis. They seemed no closer to finding Charlie – or Olson’s killer. They needed to come up with a plan.

  
_Karen Page_

Late that afternoon, Cappo was again waiting alongside Maclain’s Cadillac when Matt, Foggy and Karen emerged onto West 47th Street. On the short drive to West 72nd Street, Matt and Foggy traded ideas on where Charlie might be hiding and how to find her. They didn’t include Karen in the conversation. She had some ideas of her own but kept them to herself.

When they arrived at Maclain’s office, Maclain, Savage and Rena were there, along with two people they hadn’t met before: Maclain’s wife, Sybella, and Christian Ballard, Charlie’s fiancé. Karen studied Ballard, curious about what Charlie saw in him. Dressed in an expensive-looking suit, his tie loosened at the end of the business day, he had the kind of bland good looks that would fit right in on Wall Street, where he worked at his father’s investment firm. The only thing out of the ordinary was the length of his light brown hair; either he wore it longer than most men, or he simply needed a haircut.

After Spud, taking on the role of bartender, served drinks to everyone, Maclain began by summarizing their efforts so far to find Charlie. He concluded, “Even Daredevil hasn’t been able to find her.”

“Daredevil!” Ballard exclaimed. “You’re working with him?”

Matt answered before Maclain could speak. “He, uh, has . . . ways of finding out information that we can’t get by other means,” he explained.

Ballard chuckled. “I guess so.”

Maclain turned to Ballard and said, “We’re operating on the assumption that Charlie has gone into hiding, believing herself to be in danger, probably from one or more of the men running her company. The recent murder of one of them, Emmett Olson, suggests this assumption is correct.”

Ballard looked at Maclain in horror. “You’re saying a murderer is after her?”

Maclain nodded gravely. “Possibly.”

“My God.” Ballard fell back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. He took a deep breath, then said, “I can’t believe it. Charlie wouldn’t hurt a flea. She’s no threat to anyone.”

“She may be,” Savage told him. “We believe she has evidence of financial mismanagement, at least, at the company, maybe actual crimes.”

“That damn company,” Ballard swore, “I knew it was trouble.”

“Be that as it may,” Maclain said, “we’ve exhausted all of our leads. We’re hoping you may be able to give us some new ones.”

“Of course. What can I do to help?”

“Is there anyone else, anyone she knows that you haven’t told us about, who might be hiding Charlie?”

Ballard took a long drink and set down his glass before answering. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, she knows a lot of people, but you’re talking about someone she’d trust with her life.” He fell silent for a moment, closing his eyes in thought. Then he opened his eyes and said, “No, I can’t think of anyone else.”

“Damn,” Savage swore under his breath.

Karen had heard enough. This was no time to keep her thoughts to herself, not when Charlie’s life might be in danger. “We’re going at this backwards,” she said.

“Backwards?” Savage exclaimed. “What’s that supposed to mean? We’ve been looking for her in places where we might actually find her. You’re saying we’ve been going about it all wrong?” He scoffed. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“Maybe we should hear her out, Spud,” Sybella Maclain said, quietly but firmly, from her place at the far end of the couch. Karen gave her a grateful look. With her softly curling brown hair and the flowing lines of her well-tailored dress and matching jacket in burgundy wool, Sybella was the picture of conventional femininity. But Karen sensed an inner strength and resolve that were anything but ordinary.

Savage looked irritated but said, “If you insist.”

“I do,” Sybella assured him. “Go ahead, please, Miss Page.”

Karen caught Foggy rolling his eyes, but when she glanced at Matt, he was giving her an encouraging nod. She took a deep breath and began. “OK,” she said, “we’re assuming Charlie has gone into hiding, right?” There were nods all around. “Well, she did that for a reason, namely, because she believes she’s in danger. And she’s going to stay hidden as long as she believes that. What we need to do is remove the threat.”

“She’s got a point, Duncan,” Sybella said.

“You may be right,” Maclain replied thoughtfully, “but what she’s saying is we need to find the murderer. Larry Davis won’t be happy if we horn in on his investigation.”

“When has that ever stopped us, Dunc?” Savage asked from his place next to Sybella.

Maclain barked out a laugh. “Never.” He lit a cigarette and smoked it, apparently thinking. Finally, he said, “What we need to do is draw out the killer. I think I know how.”

“What d’you have in mind?” Matt asked.

“Our three prime suspects are the three remaining men at the company,” Maclain said. Matt nodded. “We tell them we’ve received a tip about Charlie’s whereabouts, and we’re meeting with the informant tonight. Then we see who shows up.”

“How d’you want to play it, Dunc?” Savage asked.

“I’ll go, with Dreist,” Maclain said. “You and Cappo follow me, but stay out of sight.”

“You got it,” Savage agreed.

“You sure about this?” Matt asked.

“Yeah,” Savage confirmed, “we’ve run this play before. It’ll work.”

As they discussed the time and place for the operation, Karen shot a quick look at Matt. She was pretty sure what he was thinking: Maclain, Savage, and Cappo weren’t the only ones who would be at that meeting. Daredevil would be there, too. With the plan in place, the meeting came to an end. Ballard left first. Matt, Foggy and Karen followed a few minutes later.

When the elevator doors closed and they were alone in the car, Foggy turned to Matt. “Something’s bothering you,” he said.

Matt frowned and rubbed a hand across his brow. “Something’s ‘off’ about Ballard. I can’t put my finger on it, but – ”

“You think he’s in on it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he lying?” Karen asked.

Matt shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not lying, exactly.”

“What does that even mean?” Foggy asked.

“Listening to heartbeats isn’t infallible – ”

“Oh, great,” Foggy quipped, “ _now_ you tell us.”

“What I mean is, he believed what he was saying.”

“But maybe there was something he wasn’t telling us,” Karen suggested.

“I think so,” Matt agreed.

“But what?”

Matt gave a frustrated huff. “I don’t know. I just know we weren’t asking him the right questions.”

The elevator came to a stop, and the doors opened. As they walked out, with Matt holding Foggy’s arm, Foggy said, “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

“I hope so,” Matt muttered in reply.

  
_Friday Night_

_Duncan Maclain_

Cappo brought the sleek black Cadillac to a smooth stop at the curb, a block from the location chosen for the night’s rendezvous, a boarded-up Hell’s Kitchen restaurant that was undergoing repairs after a kitchen fire. Dreist leaped out of the back seat, followed by Maclain, as Cappo and Spud climbed out of the front seat. Maclain held his white, red-tipped cane in his left hand. Dreist was on his right, the side where the police dog was accustomed to working. Dreist was wearing Schnucke’s harness, playing the role of the Seeing-Eye dog, but Maclain would be finding his way with his cane, because Dreist was not trained to guide him. Maclain checked to make sure his .38 Colt automatic was securely in its shoulder holster, then started down the sidewalk.

He took a few steps, then stopped and turned to face the two men standing next to the car.   
“Stay out of sight,” he reminded them, “and not too close.”

They answered simultaneously.

“Yessir,” Cappo said.

“We know,” Spud told him irritably.

It took Maclain and Dreist only a minute or two to reach the restaurant. There he took out the key given to him by the restaurant’s owner, a former client, and opened the padlock securing the entrance. He stepped inside, allowing the door to close behind him. He stood silently for a moment, listening. There didn’t seem to be anyone there. If there was, he was being very quiet. Then Maclain picked up a faint odor. Apparently, Dreist did, too; the German Shepherd gave a low whine. Hoping the odor wasn’t what he thought it was, Maclain ordered Dreist to stay, then let go of the dog’s harness and took a few cautious steps forward, holding the cane in front of him. When the probing cane hit something soft and yielding, his worst fears were confirmed: it was blood that he smelled. “Damn,” he swore. 

He was about to kneel down next to the unmoving figure when someone yelled from across the room: _“Gun! Get down!”_

  
_Matt Murdock_

A little before ten o’clock, Daredevil took up a position on the roof of the building that housed the boarded-up restaurant. He didn’t have to wait long before he heard Maclain’s car arriving and the few words exchanged by the three men. As Maclain’s footsteps approached, Matt descended the fire escape and entered the restaurant through the back door, having already picked the lock when he first arrived. He made his way across the kitchen and stood behind the door leading to the main room. The door hung slightly askew on its hinges and was open a crack. He breathed in the lingering odors of smoke and ash from the fire. Then he realized there was another smell mixed in with them, the coppery smell of blood.

At that instant, the front door opened, and Maclain stepped into the main dining room. Matt heard his order to the dog to stay and the tapping of his cane. Then came a sharp intake of breath, followed by a muttered curse. Matt started forward, pushing the door open. But then he heard another sound: the cocking of a gun. 

He sprinted across the room, yelling, _“Gun! Get down!”_ He launched himself into the air and took Maclain and Dreist down to the floor, covering the other man’s and the dog’s bodies with his own. He hoped to God that Dreist would recognize him; he didn’t like his chances if the dog saw him as a threat. As bullets whined in the air above them, Dreist gave a low growl but didn’t attack him.

When he was sure the shooter had emptied his gun, Matt got to his feet and ran after him, followed by Dreist. Behind them, Savage and Cappo burst through the restaurant’s front door. 

As Matt pursued the shooter, he noticed something unexpected: a rich, spicy floral scent hung in the air. He picked up hints of lavender, violets, rose, and vanilla. He ran through the cocktail lounge adjoining the dining room, into a storage room filled with crates of liquor, then out a side door, emerging into an alley alongside the building. He scanned his surroundings, but he no longer heard the shooter’s footsteps. The only trace of him that remained was the scent. A car engine started up, and a door slammed. Tires hummed as the car drove away.

After a few seconds, Maclain, Savage, and Cappo joined him. “Find,” Maclain ordered Dreist. The dog raised his head and turned it from side to side. Then he gave an unhappy-sounding whine and sat.

“Damn,” Maclain said, “we’ve lost him.”

“Maybe not,” Matt said, “I have an idea. Wait here.” He ran to the fire escape and leaped up, grabbing the bottom rung of the ladder, then ascended to the roof. Once there, he scanned the nearby rooftops, buildings, and streets, but failed to pick up any trace of the shooter or the car. Even the floral scent was gone. He swore under his breath and went back down the fire escape.

When his boots hit the ground, Maclain asked, “Anything?”

Matt shook his head. “Nothing. He’s gone.”

The four men returned to the main room, followed by Dreist. Savage knelt next to the body on the floor. “He’s dead,” he confirmed.

“Who is he?” Maclain asked.

“Irwin.”

“He’s not our killer – ” Maclain got that far before Savage interrupted him.

“Obviously.”

“But if he’s not the killer, why was he here?”

“Maybe he knew too much, like Olson,” Savage suggested. “The killer needed to get him out of the way, too.”

“Maybe,” Maclain said. “The killer has to be Fairall or King, right?”

“Looks like it.”

“They have to be desperate to find Charlie. Why kill Irwin before he finds out where she is?”

Cappo spoke up for the first time. “I got an idea about that, Captain,” he said. “Maybe the killer suspected it was a trap. He knew you weren’t going to tell him where Charlie is.”

“And it was an opportunity to take out Captain Maclain at the same time,” Matt pointed out.

“It makes sense, Dunc,” Savage said. “And now I need to find a phone to call Larry Davis.”

“OK, go,” Maclain said. After Savage left, he turned to Matt and said, “You shouldn’t be here when the police arrive. I’ll keep you out of this.”

“Thanks,” Matt said. He climbed the fire escape again and took off across the roof.


	7. Chapter 7

_Monday_

_Karen Page_

The first thing Karen saw when she got to work Monday morning was the glum expressions on Matt’s and Foggy’s faces.

“Why the long faces?” she asked, then answered her own question. “I’m guessing things didn’t go so well Friday night.”

“Not so much,” Matt confirmed from his seat on the reception room couch. “Irwin showed up, but he was murdered before Captain Maclain arrived. Then the killer tried to take out him, too.”

“Oh, my God!” Karen gasped. “He’s OK?” She hung up her coat and hat and took a seat behind her desk.

Matt nodded. “Yes. I warned him in time. But the killer gave us the slip.”

“Any idea who he is?”

“No, but my money’s on King or Fairall.” 

“It has to be one of them,” Foggy agreed as he stepped out of his office. “But which one?” He took a seat on the couch next to Matt.

Matt shrugged.

“And how do we smoke him out?” Karen asked.

“I don’t know,” Matt replied resignedly.

“Maybe Captain Maclain or Mr. Savage has an idea,” she suggested.

“Maybe. I hope so.”

“And we still have to find Charlie,” Foggy pointed out. Then he glanced at his watch. “Damn. I’m due in court in half an hour. We’ll talk later.” Not waiting for an answer, he jumped up, grabbed his briefcase, and dashed out the door.

Looking thoughtful, Matt disappeared into his office.

Karen made coffee and poured a cup for herself, then uncovered her typewriter and started typing up yesterday afternoon’s dictation from Matt. She had an idea about how to find Charlie, but she didn’t want to let the two lawyers in on it just yet.

To carry out her plan, Karen needed to leave work early. For the rest of the morning, she struggled to come up with a reason for her early departure that wouldn’t end with her getting caught in a lie by Matt. Then she remembered: Matt had a meeting with a new client in the afternoon, a meeting that was taking place at the client’s office. She would wait until he left, then ask Foggy if she could leave early. It worked. When she told Foggy she needed to leave early for a doctor’s appointment, he was, predictably, concerned, but she assured him it was only a routine check-up.

A little before four that afternoon, she covered her typewriter and put on her coat and hat. She peeked into Foggy’s office and said, “I’m off.”

“OK,” he replied. “See you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” she said as she walked out of the office.

The subway took her across town. A short walk uptown brought her to East 65th Street. Then she waited, concealed in the areaway of the house across the street from Charlie’s townhouse. A minute or two later, Mrs. O’Brien emerged from the basement entrance. “Right on schedule,” Karen thought. 

She pulled out a dark scarf and tied it over her hair, then followed the housekeeper along the sidewalk. She was careful to keep her distance, but Mrs. O’Brien never looked back. The housekeeper descended the stairs to the subway station and boarded a downtown local. Karen stepped into the same car, at the far end, just as the doors were closing. A change of trains, and they arrived in Hell’s Kitchen, where Mrs. O’Brien got off. “You should’ve known,” Karen told herself. The housekeeper knew about Matt’s father, so of course she lived in Hell’s Kitchen. Three blocks from the subway station, she entered a six-story, red-brick apartment building on West 52nd Street, between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. It appeared to be in better repair than the buildings around it. Karen waited until she saw a light go on in a fourth-floor window, then made her way home.

After a quick supper and a change of clothes, Karen returned to West 52nd Street. She was now dressed in navy blue and black, and her blonde hair was twisted into a knot on top of her head and covered by a navy blue beret. She kept to the shadows across the street from Mrs. O’Brien’s building, hoping to escape the notice of the men who frequented the area, looking for streetwalkers. She also had to hope she didn’t attract the attention of the police. As far as they were concerned, there was only one reason a woman would be loitering on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen at night. She would never live it down if she had to call Foggy or, worse, Matt to bail her out after being picked up for soliciting. She turned up the collar of her coat and settled in to wait for Charlie to appear.

The hours passed with no sign of the heiress. When she heard the bells of the Clinton Church strike midnight, Karen called it a night. “Damn,” she swore silently. She was positive Charlie was hiding out at Mrs. O’Brien’s apartment. It was the only answer that made sense. Who would she trust more than her faithful housekeeper? Surely Charlie would show eventually. Karen wasn’t giving up, not by a long shot. She just had to be patient.

  
_Thursday_

Karen went back to her desk with her third cup of coffee, hoping it would clear out the cobwebs. She had watched Mrs. O’Brien’s building until midnight for three nights running, but Charlie hadn’t shown herself. The lack of sleep was catching up to her – she wondered how Matt did it, going out as Daredevil, night after night – and she felt a huge yawn coming on. She clapped a hand in front of her mouth but couldn’t hide it from Foggy, who was just coming out of his office. Damn.

“Late night, Miss Page?” he asked teasingly.

She shook her head. “No. Just didn’t get a good night’s sleep, that’s all.”

Matt emerged from his office. “Seems like you’ve had a few of those nights lately,” he observed.

“I know!” Foggy exclaimed triumphantly. “She has a new boyfriend. That’s it, isn’t it? C’mon, Karen, spill the beans.”

“It’s not that,” Karen said wearily.

“Well, if it’s not a hot date, then what is it?” 

“Just let it go, Foggy,” Karen told him. “It’s nothing.”

Foggy persisted. “It’s about time, you know. You need to find Mr. Right and settle down. You can’t work for us forever.”

“I can’t?”

“I mean, you can, if you want to. But you want to get married and have kids, right? Isn’t that what every woman wants?”

Matt saved her from having to answer. “Give it a rest, Fog. What Karen does on her own time is really none of our business.”

“It is, if she’s falling asleep at her desk,” Foggy retorted.

“I’m not!” Karen protested. To demonstrate, she fed a sheet of paper into her typewriter and started typing at top speed. 

Foggy shrugged and went back to his office. Matt lingered for a moment, looking thoughtful, then returned to his desk.

That night, Karen returned to her post on West 52nd Street. As she waited for Charlie to appear, her thoughts kept straying to what Foggy had said that morning. A husband and children – was that really what every woman wanted? More to the point, was that what _she_ wanted? She wasn’t sure. And if that was the life she wanted, with whom? Matt? It would be easy to fall in love with him, if she let herself. He was smart, witty, and charming (when he chose to be). He had a lovely smile, especially when he told her he liked listening to the sound of her voice. She admired him, too – his courage, his grit and determination, and his passion for justice, a passion that she shared. And she had to admit he had a certain . . . sex appeal, even though “nice girls” weren’t supposed to think about such things. She smiled to herself and felt her cheeks growing warm; the thought was making her blush.

It was never going to happen, she told herself sadly. He wasn’t interested in her, not in that way. He only thought of her as his secretary. And he was Daredevil. That was a part of him she didn’t understand, or even know. Besides, she still had her dream of becoming a reporter – a real reporter, one who covered the news instead of writing fluff pieces for the women’s pages. She wasn’t ready to give up that dream, not even for Matthew Murdock.

She remembered a conversation with her mother, Penny, shortly before she died. She thought of it as one of the few real conversations they’d had, woman to woman. It was destined to be the last. Penny tried not to show it, but she was in terrible pain from the cancer that had spread throughout her body. She struggled to get the words out, as if she knew she wouldn’t have another chance to tell Karen what she needed to tell her.

She told Karen about going to work after finishing high school, scrimping and saving, hoping to scrape together enough money to enroll at UVM. She would be the first in her family to go to college. Her dream was to be a teacher someday.

“Then I met your father,” she said, “and I got pregnant . . . with you.”

“Oh, Mom,” Karen breathed. It had never occurred to her to check the interval between her parents’ wedding date and her own birthday.

“We had to get married, of course, and I gave up my . . . my dream of going to college.”

“I’m so sorry,” Karen began. Penny interrupted her, covering Karen’s hand with her own. Her mother’s hand was cold, so cold.

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” she said. “I didn’t lose my dream, not really. I love your father. I would have married him anyway. It just happened a little sooner than we planned. And you and your brother have given me such . . . joy. You . . . all of you, have been the . . . the lights of my life. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

Penny coughed, a harsh, hacking cough that was painful for Karen to hear. When the cough subsided, she handed her mother a glass of water. Penny caught her breath and took a sip of water before she continued. 

“I hope you can have what I’ve had,” she said, “but only if that’s _your_ dream. And if it isn’t, if you want another kind of life, don’t let anyone take that away from you.” She fell back onto her pillow, exhausted.

“I won’t,” Karen promised. Penny died four days later.

Waiting and watching in the shadows on 52nd Street, Karen reached up to touch the necklace she always wore. Her mother’s necklace. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed movement in front of the building across the street. Someone came out of the building and walked east along the sidewalk. When the figure passed under a street light, Karen saw her clearly: it was Charlie, carrying her briefcase in one hand and a train case in the other. Karen stepped out of the shadows and followed the other woman, keeping her head down and staying on the opposite side of the street. Charlie rounded the corner onto Ninth Avenue and hailed a cab. It swooped to the curb, and she got in. There were no other cabs in sight. Karen watched helplessly as the cab drove away. 

  
_Duncan Maclain_

After a leisurely supper, expertly prepared and served by Sarah Marsh, Cappo’s wife, Duncan Maclain and his wife Sybella retired to their bedroom. But not for any of the usual activities associated with that chamber. Instead, Maclain took a seat at his wife’s dressing table. She sat next to him, placing bottles of expensive perfumes in his hand. One by one, he sniffed them. Ever since discovering the body of Emmett Olson, he had been trying, without success, to identify the scent he’d detected in the air at the scene of the crime. This was his latest, and most desperate, attempt.

After sniffing the tenth bottle, he waved off Sybella’s attempt to hand him yet another one. “It’s no good,” he said, “they’re all starting to smell the same.”

Sybella rubbed his neck and shoulders. “You need to take a break, that’s all,” she told him. Then she rose and walked out of the room. When she returned, she was carrying a brandy snifter. She handed it to her husband. He sniffed its contents – his best cognac – and chuckled.

“Now _that_ I recognize,” he said, and drank.

“You should,” she quipped, “you drink enough of it.”

Maclain took a few minutes to sip his nightcap. When the glass was empty, he set it down. “Let’s keep trying.”

The next three bottles Sybella handed him elicited only a shake of his head, but when Maclain smelled the contents of the fourth one, he felt a jolt of recognition. He sat very still for a moment, holding the oblong bottle in his hand. Then he raised it to his nose again and took a deep breath. “By God, I think this is it,” he said. He handed the bottle to Sybella and asked, “What is it?”

“‘Royal Secret’,” she replied. “One of my favorites. It’s a lovely fragrance.”

“You wear it?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, fairly often,” she said. “But now I’ll have to stop wearing it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to suspect me of murder.”

Maclain laughed, but his laugh was cut short by the ringing of the telephone.

Sybella rose and went to answer it. When she returned, she said, “It’s for you.”

Maclain made his way to the nearest telephone, an extension sitting on a little table in the hall outside the bedroom. He picked up the receiver and said, “Maclain.”

A man’s voice, sounding agitated, came over the line. “Is this Captain Maclain?” he asked. 

Maclain recognized the voice: Paul Fairall. “Yes, this is Maclain. What is it, Fairall?”

“Oh, thank God. You’ve got to come right away! I’ve found something. Here. At the office. I know – ” Fairall abruptly stopped speaking; something, or someone, had interrupted him. When he spoke again, his voice was fainter, as if he was speaking to someone in the room, and not into the phone. “ _You!_ What are you – ?” he exclaimed.

At the other end of the line, Maclain heard the explosive report of a single shot, followed by a thud. There was a click, and the line went dead.


	8. Chapter 8

_Thursday_

_Duncan Maclain_

Maclain hung up the phone and stood very still next to the hall table, considering his course of action. His decision made, he called to his wife. “Sybella!”

Her footsteps came out of their bedroom, then stopped short several feet from him. Apparently she had seen the expression on her husband’s face. “What is it, Duncan?” she asked, her voice revealing her concern.

“My dear,” he said, keeping his voice gentle, “would you call Cappo for me and ask him to bring the car around?”

“Of course,” she replied. She turned and took a step back toward the bedroom, where the house phone was located, then stopped. “Something’s happened,” she said.

Maclain nodded. “That was Paul Fairall on the telephone just now. Someone shot him while we were speaking.” Sybella gasped. “Tell Cappo, I need to go to the Stansfield offices. _Now_.”

She turned without answering him and went into the bedroom to call Cappo, who was in the spacious apartment, two stories below, that he shared with Sarah.

Maclain frowned and picked up the telephone in front of him to call Inspector Davis.

  
Twenty minutes later, Cappo turned the Cadillac to the curb in front of an office building on Madison Avenue in the Thirties. He opened the passenger side doors, and Schnucke leaped out, followed by Maclain. “Stay with the car for now,” Maclain ordered. “I’ll send for you if I need you.”

“Yes, sir.”

At the building entrance, an officer blocked Maclain’s path. “Duncan Maclain,” he snapped, “Inspector Davis is expecting me.”

The cop spoke into a walkie-talkie. “Some blind man is here, claims the Inspector is expecting him. Name of Maclain.”

A staticky voice replied, “Send him up.” Through the static, Maclain recognized the voice of Sergeant Archer.

“Hey, Benny,” the cop called, “take this guy up to the eighth floor.”

Footsteps approached. “Come with me,” another voice, said, before the man – Benny, apparently – grabbed Maclain’s right arm. Maclain wrested his arm from Benny’s grasp and took hold of Benny’s arm instead, keeping a grip on Schnucke’s harness with his left hand. 

They followed Benny into the elevator, which took them to the eighth floor. As the doors opened, Benny started to lead Maclain out of the car, but Maclain stopped him. We can take it from here,” he said, “just tell me where to go.”

To his credit, Benny didn’t argue. He said, “To your left. All the way to the end of the hall.”

Sergeant Archer was waiting for Maclain at the entrance to the suite of offices occupied by Stansfield Radio Technology, Inc. “Hell of a thing,” the policeman observed. “The Inspector says you were speaking to him on the phone when it happened.”

“I was.” Maclain recognized Inspector Davis’s footsteps approaching and greeted him. “Larry.”

“Dunc.”

“He’s dead?” Maclain asked.

“Yep,” Davis confirmed. “Single shot to the head. Looks like a .38.”

“Sounded like it, too,” Maclain observed.

“Tell me, again, what Fairall said,” Davis directed him. After Maclain repeated Fairall’s words verbatim, the Inspector gave a frustrated huff. “He sounded excited, you say?”

“Yes. He said he’d found something I needed to know about.”

“But he didn’t say what it was?”

Maclain shook his head. “Never got the chance.”

“Damn,” Davis swore. 

“Did you find it, whatever it was?” Maclain asked.

“No. We’re thinking the killer took it with him.”

The two men fell silent for a moment. Then Maclain spoke up. “Fairall definitely knew his killer. But he was also surprised to see him.”

“It has to be Horace King, doesn’t it?” Davis asked. “He’s the only one of the four left.”

“As far as we know.”

“That’s the problem,” Davis said. “We don’t know. I sent a man to his apartment. No one home, and a neighbor saw the whole family – King, his wife, and his son – getting into a cab this afternoon around four o’clock. They had suitcases, a lot of suitcases, according to the neighbor.”

“So did he pull a disappearing act because he thinks he’s next, or did he put the wife and son on a train or plane and come back to take care of Fairall?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Davis said resignedly. “We’re checking the train stations, piers, and airports, but it will take time. In the meantime, we’re putting out an APB on him.”

Maclain sighed. “Show me the scene?” he asked. He could almost hear the wheels turning as Davis considered the request, but he knew that, in the end, Davis would agree. The Inspector had plenty of experience with Maclain’s ability to spot things he and his sighted officers had missed.

Finally, Davis responded. “This way,” he said, bumping Maclain’s hand with his arm.

Maclain dropped Schnucke’s harness and ordered the Seeing-Eye dog to stay, then followed Davis.

Davis narrated his observations as they crossed the reception room and turned to the left to enter Fairall’s corner office suite. “Nothing out of place in the secretary’s office, all the action was in the private office.” Davis led Maclain into the president’s office. “Body is behind the desk, to our right, his left, where the telephone is located. Where you’d expect to find him if he was shot while speaking on the phone. His chair is pushed back, as if he stood up at some point, maybe when he saw the killer. The receiver is in place on the phone. We’ll dust for prints, but – ”

Maclain interrupted him to finish the thought. “But this killer is smart enough to wear gloves.”

“Yep,” Davis agreed. “Nothing obviously out of place on the desk. Not much there, actually. The phone, a blotter, a calendar, and two pens in a holder. I’m guessing the killer grabbed whatever Fairall had found and skedaddled. He wouldn’t have had time to toss the place, not with you hearing the shot through the phone.”

“Makes sense.” Maclain thought for a minute. When Davis was guiding him into the office, he’d noticed a trace of . . . something. “Take me closer, will you?” he asked. “To the side of the desk where the phone is.”

“OK.” Davis led Maclain to a spot a few steps from the end of the desk. The blind man took a deep breath through his nose, hoping the Inspector wouldn’t notice. “Anything?” Davis asked.

Maclain shook his head. “No, nothing.”

“Well, thanks for coming down,” Davis said, “but you’ve done all you can for now. The boys and I have our work cut out for us. At least you get to go home tonight.”

Maclain held out his hand, and Davis shook it. “Let me know if you think of anything else,” the Inspector said.

“I will,” Maclain replied. Davis summoned an officer to guide him to the elevator. On the way down, he tried to make sense of what he’d discovered in the office. He hadn’t been entirely truthful when he told the Inspector he hadn’t noticed anything in the vicinity of the body. He just didn’t want Davis to know about it until he figured out what it meant. But he _had_ noticed something: a scent he’d smelled before, in Olson’s apartment, and earlier that evening, from a perfume bottle on his wife’s dressing table. A woman’s perfume, called “Royal Secret.” What was the killer doing, wearing a woman’s perfume?

  
_Friday_

_Karen Page_

Karen sat at her desk, drumming her fingers on the keyboard of her typewriter without actually typing anything. She needed to talk to Foggy and Matt about what she had discovered last night, but they were in trial and would be in court all day. There had been no chance to talk that morning, not with all three of them rushing around, before the two lawyers hurried out the door on their way to the courthouse. She sighed. At least, she hadn’t yet received a phone call from one of them demanding to know the location of an exhibit they absolutely had to have for the next witness – usually, exactly where it was supposed to be. Matt sometimes made a joke of it, accusing her of hiding things from the blind guy. But all three of them knew this was serious business. The case they were trying was a big case for their badly injured client, and for the firm. As Foggy constantly reminded them, the contingency fee they could earn from a win at trial would keep the firm afloat – and pay her salary – for six months, if not longer.

Her need to talk to Foggy and Matt became even more urgent after a mid-morning phone call from Rena Savage: Paul Fairall had been shot dead in his office last night while speaking on the telephone to Captain Maclain. Horace King, the last remaining officer of Stansfield Radio Technology, Inc., had disappeared. The police believed he had skipped town after killing Fairall, Irwin, and Olson. 

Karen wasn’t so sure. Fairall had been killed less than an hour after she saw Charlotte Stansfield get into a cab on Ninth Avenue, headed downtown. She didn’t want to think Charlie was a killer, but the timing didn’t look good. And Charlie had a motive: she was determined to seize control of the company for herself. You might even say she was obsessed. But why hire Foggy and Matt to work within the legal system, and then kill the men who were standing in her way? It didn’t make sense.

If not Charlie, then who? she asked herself. The three women Charlie planned to install as her top lieutenants would benefit if the four men were out of the way, but she doubted any of the women wanted those jobs badly enough to kill for them. She thought for a moment, absently drumming her fingers on the keyboard again. Then it came to her: there was someone else who would benefit, someone no one was looking at. She picked up the phone to call Ben Urich. She was in luck. Ben was at his desk in the newsroom at the _Bugle_ , instead of chasing down a story, and he promised to get back to her soon with answers to her questions. 

Now it was time for her to get to work. She had plenty to keep her busy while waiting for Ben’s call. Frowning, she flipped open her steno book and squinted at her shorthand notes of the special jury instructions Foggy and Matt had dictated yesterday evening. Not for the first time, she wished they would use the Dictaphone, but they both preferred to dictate to her. Foggy insisted that using the machine inhibited the “flow,” whatever that was. She didn’t buy it, but she hadn’t been able to change their minds. Not yet. At least her notes were relatively fresh and not too hard to decipher. She rolled a piece of paper into her typewriter and began hitting the keys. An hour later, she was finished. She pulled the last page out of the typewriter and added it to the stack. Now for the second part of the job. She pulled the dictating machine toward her and began reading the jury instructions aloud, recording them on a Dictaphone belt for Matt to listen to.

It was late afternoon before the call from Ben came in. She was just hanging up the phone when she heard Foggy’s and Matt’s voices in the hallway outside their office. As they walked in the door, Foggy was saying, “I wish you could’ve seen the expression on his face when you caught him in that lie.”

Matt smiled. “I can imagine. But what about the jurors?”

“Oh, they got it,” Foggy assured him.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

The two lawyers dropped their heavy trial cases, then took off their coats and hats and hung them on the coat rack. Matt hung his cane next to his coat.

“Sounds like you had a good day,” Karen observed.

“It was,” Foggy declared. “You have the jury instructions?”

Karen came out from behind her desk to hand the sheaf of papers to Foggy and the Dictaphone belt to Matt. “Right here.”

“Thanks. We’ll be in Matt’s office, going over them.”

The two men started toward Matt’s office but stopped when Karen called out to them. “Wait a minute. There are things you need to know.”

Matt shoved the Dictaphone belt into his pocket and turned to face her. “What’s that?”

“I know where Miss Stansfield has been hiding out.”

“What!” Foggy exclaimed. “Where?” He crossed the room to the reception room couch and took a seat, dropping the jury instructions on the cushion next to him.

“At her housekeeper’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Really?” 

“Yes, really.”

“I never would’ve – ” Foggy began, but Karen cut him off.

“Exactly. She’s just the housekeeper, and an old woman besides. No one would ever think to look there.”

Karen returned to her place behind her desk. Matt followed her. “How do you know?” he asked, leaning back against the low filing cabinet along the wall and crossing his arms.

“I followed Mrs. O’Brien from 65th Street when she left work on Monday and found out where she lives.”

“Where, exactly?”

Karen knew what he was asking, and why. No doubt Daredevil would make an appearance at the housekeeper’s home later that evening. “West 52nd Street, north side of the street, a six-story building in the middle of the block, between Ninth and Tenth. The apartment’s on the fourth floor, west side of the building. I’ve been watching the apartment at night since Monday.”

“Oh, Karen,” Matt muttered, shaking his head.

Karen ignored him. “Charlie finally showed last night. She left a little after eight and caught a cab going downtown on Ninth Avenue.”

“Going where?” Foggy asked.

Karen shook her head. “I don’t know. I would’ve followed her, but there wasn’t another cab.”

“All right,” Matt said, waving a hand. “Now we know where she is, I’ll go get her tonight and take her to Maclain’s like we originally planned.” He took a step toward his office but stopped when Karen spoke again.

“There’s something else.”

“What?”

“Rena Savage called this morning. Paul Fairall was shot to death in his office last night. Captain Maclain was speaking on the telephone with him when he was shot.”

“My God!” Foggy exclaimed, springing to his feet. “Do they know who did it?”

“Rena said Horace King is the cops’ number one suspect, but he’s disappeared, along with his family.”

Matt frowned and shook his head. “No, it’s not him.”

“It’s not?” Foggy asked.

“When Irwin was shot, I picked up the killer’s scent. It was floral, spicy, like a woman’s perfume.”

“A woman? You mean our client?”

Matt nodded. “Could be.”

“But, but . . . she’s our _client_ ,” Foggy protested.

“That doesn’t mean she’s innocent.”

“But why?” Karen asked. “She came to us for help to take over the company legally. Why kill them? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe she doesn’t have faith in the legal system,” Matt suggested. “Maybe she decided to take the law into her own hands.”

“Like someone we know,” Foggy muttered.

“Foggy, I – ”

Matt only got two words out before Karen interrupted him. “Not now, boys,” she said firmly. They didn’t have time for Matt and Foggy to bicker about Daredevil. Not as long as the killer was still out there.

Foggy fell back onto the couch. “So what now?”

“We stick to the original plan,” Matt said. “I’ll go get her tonight.” Then he added, pointedly, “If that’s all right with you.”

Foggy waved a hand resignedly. “Do what you need to do.”

Matt crossed the room to the coat rack and picked up his cane. 

“Wait a minute,” Karen said. “What if the killer isn’t Horace King or Charlie?”

He turned to face her. “Who, then?”

“Chris Ballard, Charlie’s fiancé. He stands to benefit, in a big way, if Charlie succeeds in taking over the company. Ben Urich looked into him for me today. It turns out his father’s Wall Street firm, where he works, is in financial trouble. They took a big hit in the last recession. So he definitely has a motive.”

“Didn’t Captain Maclain say he has an alibi?” Foggy protested.

“Yes, but only for the weekend when Charlie went missing.”

“Oh. Right. You think he’s the killer?”

Karen thought for a moment, then let out her breath all at once. “I don’t know. But if he is – ”

Matt interrupted before she could finish the thought. “You think Charlie’s in danger.”

“I do. Let’s say he killed Olson, Irwin, and Fairall, and maybe King, to help Charlie take over the company. Then he marries her, and she signs the new will Mr. Savage found. If she dies, the company’s his. What’s one more murder, if he’s already killed four people?”

“Damn,” Matt swore.

“So what’s the plan?” Foggy asked.

“Same plan. I’ll go get Charlie and make sure she’s safe. Then we find the killer and stop him – before he kills again.”

“And if Charlie’s the killer?” Karen asked.

Matt frowned, pressing his lips together in a thin line. After a moment, he licked his lips and said, “We stop her.” He grabbed his coat and hat and left his partner and his secretary exchanging worried looks.


	9. Chapter 9

_Friday_

_Matt Murdock_

Within an hour after Matt left the office, Daredevil was in position on the roof of the six-story building on West 52nd Street where Mrs. O’Brien lived. He inclined his head toward her apartment, but he couldn’t tell how many people were there. It was too far away for him to hear individual heartbeats, and no one was talking. Instead, Mrs. O’Brien, and possibly Miss Stansfield, were watching television, some program called “Father Knows Best.” Whether they liked it or not, their TV viewing was about to be interrupted. He headed toward the side of the building where the fire escape was located and descended to the fourth floor.

Outside the window, he used the thin blade of a putty knife to turn the lock. He raised the window and stepped into a room that felt unoccupied, a guest room, perhaps. But it should have been occupied. He had a bad feeling about this. He made his way silently down a hall leading to the living room. Along with the sound of the television, he heard the irregular heartbeat of an older person, most likely the housekeeper. Now he was sure: there was only one person in the apartment. Her heartbeat raced, and she rose to her feet, when he stepped into the room. There was a sharp intake of breath, followed by a whispered, “Saints preserve us,” at the sight of a man in a devil suit.

Matt raised a finger to his lips, then held out his hands, palms up. “I’m just here to talk,” he assured the elderly woman. “We need to get Charlie, Miss Stansfield, that is, to a safe place. But she’s not here, is she?”

Mrs. O’Brien shook her head and sank back into the armchair behind her.

“But she was here, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, until last night.” 

“Where did she go?”

The housekeeper hesitated. “I don’t know, not for sure.”

“But you have an idea,” Matt prompted her.

She nodded. “I think . . . I think she went to Mr. Ballard’s. I heard her speaking on the telephone, shortly before she left. I think she was talking to him.”

“Where does he live?”

“In the Village,” she replied. “He likes to go to the jazz clubs,” she added disapprovingly.

“His address,” Matt said, “I need the address.”

“Oh, yes, of course, I have it here, somewhere.”

Matt tried to hide his impatience, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as the old woman opened several drawers and rummaged through their contents. Finally, she held up a rectangular object, apparently an address book, and said triumphantly, “Here it is.” Paper rustled as pages turned. Then she read off an address in Greenwich Village.

Matt committed the address to memory, then said, “Thank you,” and turned to go.

“I did try to talk her out of it, you know,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “It’s not proper, her staying with him before they’re married.”

Matt murmured noncommittally in response.

“She’ll be safe, will she, where you’re taking her?”

“You have my word,” Matt told her, before he strode quickly out of the room.

  
_Duncan Maclain_

After dinner, Sybella carried the coffee tray into the office. She set it down on the low table in front of the couch and took a seat next to Duncan. While she poured the coffee, he lit a cigarette, breathing the smoke in deeply and letting it out slowly. He located the ash tray in its usual place on the table in front of him and placed his cigarette in it, before finding the coffee cup and lifting it to his lips. He smoked in silence for several minutes, struggling to find the answers that, so far, had eluded him. Three men dead, and none of it made sense.

Always attuned to his moods – Maclain assumed it was feminine intuition, or some such thing, and his wife never bothered to correct him – Sybella rubbed the back of his neck. He felt some of the tension there dissolve. “Something’s bothering you, Duncan. Tell me,” she said softly.

He gave a frustrated huff. “It’s this damned case. Nothing makes sense. We’re missing something.”

“What?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know what.” He took a final drag on his cigarette and extinguished it in the ash tray. 

“What does Inspector Davis say?”

“He thinks Horace King is the killer, that he killed those men to cover up his theft of the company’s funds. The fact that he fled, along with his family, sealed the deal.”

“But you don’t agree.”

He shook his head. “No. King is the production man, started on the factory floor and rose through the ranks. He doesn’t have the financial savvy to pull off a slick embezzlement.”

“Maybe Inspector Davis is going at it from the wrong angle,” Sybella suggested.

“And what would the right angle be, my dear?”

_“‘Cui bono?’”_

“‘For whose benefit?’” 

“Exactly. Don’t you always say that’s the first question a detective needs to ask?”

Maclain considered this for a moment. She might be on to something. But . . . . “For the life of me, I can’t see how King benefits from killing those men.”

“He wouldn’t take over the company?”

“Not necessarily. It isn’t likely he would inherit their shares. And Miss Stansfield would still hold the majority of the shares.”

“Then you need to widen your net. It seems to me the person who benefits the most is Miss Stansfield.”

Maclain scoffed. “Miss Stansfield? She’s just a girl.”

“A very smart one, according to you,” Sybella pointed out.

“True.”

“And very determined.”

“Also true,” Maclain conceded. “But a murderess?”

“Why not?” Sybella asked. “She wouldn’t be the first.”

Maclain frowned. “I don’t know.”

Sybella persisted. “If not Miss Stansfield, then who?”

Then the answer came to him. How could he not have seen it? It was obvious. He reached for his wife and enveloped her in a bear hug. “Darling, you’re a genius,” he exclaimed. He released her from the hug and scrambled to his feet, calling his Seeing-Eye dog. “Schnucke! Come!” Then he turned to Sybella and said, “My dear, would you call Cappo and ask him to bring the car around?”

“Of course. But where are you going?”

Maclain didn’t answer her right away. He took his automatic in its shoulder-holster rig out of his desk drawer and strapped it on. Schnucke trotted into the office and stood next to him while he buckled her harness. He finally answered his wife’s question as he and Schnucke walked out of the office: “To nab a murderer.” 

  
_Matt Murdock_

When Matt left the housekeeper, he didn’t go directly to Ballard’s apartment in the Village. It would take too long to get there, traveling on the rooftops. Instead, he headed back to his apartment, only a few blocks away. There he pulled a loose-fitting sweatshirt and pants out of his closet and put them on over his devil suit. His mask and gloves went into his pockets, along with several folded bills for cab fare. He left his dark glasses and cane behind, confident he could pass for sighted for the duration of a cab ride downtown.

The cab dropped him off a block from Ballard’s address. He made his way along the sidewalk until he found a gap between two buildings. When he was sure no one was watching, he slipped into the space. One of the buildings had a fire escape in the back. He climbed it. Once on the roof, he took off running, relishing the feeling of the breeze in his face as he sprinted across the roofs and leaped the gaps between buildings. When he reached the roof of Ballard’s building, he paused to get his bearings. The building seemed to be a townhouse, now converted to apartments, one per floor. According to Mrs. O’Brien, Ballard’s was on the third floor. Matt tilted his head, focusing, but couldn’t pick up any voices coming from two floors below him. Only one way to find out if Charlie was there, he told himself. He took off his pants and sweatshirt and left them on the roof before putting on his mask and gloves and climbing down the fire escape.

On the landing just above the third floor, Matt stopped to listen. There were still no voices coming from inside Ballard’s apartment, but he heard footsteps, two sets of them, climbing the stairs and walking down the short hall to Ballard’s front door. One set was a man, but the other was different, lighter, clicking softly against the floor. And there were more of them. A dog? “Damn,” Matt swore under his breath. It had to be Maclain. What was he doing here?

Below him, a doorbell rang, followed by the sound of a door opening. “Captain Maclain!” a man’s voice exclaimed. Ballard.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” a woman asked. Charlie.

“People have been looking for you, young lady,” Maclain said sternly.

“I know,” Charlie replied smoothly, “but I can assure you I’m perfectly all right.”

“That may be, but you’re not safe here.”

“Oh, but I am. Chris will protect me. Won’t you, darling?”

“Of course,” Ballard said.

Matt had heard enough. Time for Daredevil to make an appearance. He descended the last few steps, opened the window, and stepped into the room. Charlie and Ballard were sitting next to each other on the davenport along the wall to his right. Maclain was to his left, standing in the archway between the living room and the foyer, with Schnucke at his side. Charlie shrieked when the red-suited figure appeared. Before Matt could stop him, Ballard jumped to his feet and grabbed her, pulling her from the couch and holding her in front of him with his left arm around her neck. In his right hand he held a gun, pointed at her head. He backed up, toward the far wall, dragging Charlie in front of him.

“Chris, no,” she pleaded, “please.”

Matt inclined his head in her direction. He wasn’t listening to her words. He was listening to her heartbeat. It wasn’t the rapid, stuttering heartbeat of a panicked woman who feared for her life. It was regular and steady, not missing a beat. Charlie wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t a victim. It was an act. Then Matt noticed something else. Charlie was squirming, as if she was trying to escape Ballard’s grasp, but he wasn’t holding her tightly. She could easily escape if she wanted to. Then there was the gun. It was pointed more at the ceiling than at Charlie’s head. At worst, if Ballard fired, the bullet would graze the side of Charlie’s head, without doing serious damage.

For now, Matt decided, he would play along with the charade. If he could keep Ballard talking, he was likely to let something slip. He was the weak link; Charlie was the brains of the operation. Matt was sure of it. The wild card was Maclain. He didn’t know what the other blind man was thinking. He would have to find a way to communicate his suspicions to Maclain, without revealing them to Charlie and Ballard. He held out his hands and addressed Ballard. “You’re not gonna kill anyone, Chris. You know that.”

“Listen to him, Chris. Please!” Charlie pleaded, pretending to struggle to escape his grasp. 

“It’s all right,” Matt said quietly. “We know what you did, and why.” Maclain’s heartbeat speeded up. Did he know what Matt was doing? “You can tell us, but you need to put the gun down, and let her go.”

Charlie squirmed again, and the hand holding the gun wavered. But Ballard shook his head. “No. I can’t.”

“What did you do, Chris?” Charlie whispered. “Tell them.”

“It was for you, it was all for you. I did it. I killed those men.”

“Noooo!” Charlie cried. “How could you?”

“I love you,” Ballard replied. “You weren’t going to be happy until the company was all yours. I just wanted you to be happy.”

Ballard’s heart rate and breathing sped up. He was going to do something. Matt wasn’t sure what, but he had to stop Ballard, preferably without getting anyone killed in the process. Disarm Ballard or free Charlie? Matt thought for a second, then decided. In a single swift movement, he pulled out a billy club and hurled it at Ballard. The club found its target, hitting the gun and the hand holding it. Ballard gave a yelp of pain and dropped the gun. Charlie slipped out of his grasp. When she escaped, the fight seemed to go out of Ballard. He stood by silently and watched as Matt picked up the gun, unloaded it, and tossed it aside, along with a handful of bullets. 

Charlie stumbled forward, panting. She fell into Maclain’s arms. When she caught her breath, she exclaimed, “Thank God! I could’ve been killed!” 

“Nice try, Miss Stansfield,” Matt said, “but we both know no one was gonna be killed here tonight.”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded coldly.

“You know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insisted. “It was Chris. He killed those men. He was going to kill me.”

“You’re lying,” Matt said.

“You can’t possibly – ”

Matt didn’t let her finish. “I know.”

“Maybe he does know,” Maclain said. “They say Daredevil knows when people are lying to him.”

Charlie took a step away from Maclain and scoffed. “‘They say?’ Who? The tabloids? People will say anything to sell newspapers.”

Maclain didn’t respond. “And you, Miss Stansfield,” he continued, “you used your fiancé, you played him. This was your game. A deadly game. One that gets men killed.”

“No! It was Chris, it was all Chris’s idea.”

“I don’t think so. You were there – at Olson’s apartment, at Fairall’s office.”

“How – ?” she began, then stopped herself.

“The scent of a woman’s perfume – _your_ perfume. The one you’re wearing right now.”

“That scent was at the restaurant, too,” Matt said. “You were there when Irwin was killed. Maybe Ballard here pulled the trigger, but the plan – well, that was yours. You were there to make sure everything went according to your plan. You drove the getaway car.”

“You’re wrong,” Ballard declared. “I told you, it was my plan. I was the one who pulled the trigger. I don’t care what you think you smelled. Charlie had nothing to do with it. I did it for her.”

“Oh, my darling Chris,” Charlie sighed. “You’ve never been the sharpest knife in the drawer. What were you thinking?”

“Oh, I think you know, my girl,” Maclain said. “You’re the one playing the deadly game, not your pawn here.”

“I’m not your girl,” she snapped, “and I don’t play games.”

“Call it whatever you want – ” Maclain said, but Charlie didn’t let him finish. She suddenly lunged toward him, going for the gun in his shoulder holster. Maclain somehow detected her movement – and deduced her intent. He dropped Schnucke’s harness and chopped down on Charlie’s hand before she could get to the gun. Then he grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back.

“It’s over,” he told her. “And now I’m calling the police.”

Charlie wrenched her wrist from his grasp and threw up her hands. “Do it,” she challenged him. “They’ll never believe you.”

“Oh, I think they will.” Maclain turned toward Matt. “The phone?”

“On the table to your right. Three o’clock. About six feet.”

Maclain found the telephone, lifted the receiver, and dialed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by a lovely comment by a German-speaking reader (on another site), I looked up the dogs' names in a German-English dictionary online. According to that source, the English translation of "schnucki" is "sweetie," and the English translation of "dreist" is "bold." I can't take credit for the dogs' names. They were named by the author of the Duncan Maclain novels, Baynard Kendrick.
> 
> The Maclain novels were published over several decades, from the late 1930s to the early 1960s, much longer than a dog's life span, but Maclain's dogs are always named "Schnucke" and "Dreist." The explanation appears in "You Die Today!" published in 1952. Maclain's first dogs were named "Schnucke" and "Dreist," and their successors were given the same names. As of 1952, they were Schnucke IV and Dreist IV. When their predecessors were no longer able to work, they were retired to Rena and Spud's farm on Long Island.


End file.
